


Worthless

by Jomel10



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Friendship, Hate Sex, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Rape, Rape Recovery, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jomel10/pseuds/Jomel10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is hurt when Sherlock forgets him once again and wonders what he can get from their friendship. Unbeknowst to him, Sherlock has a dramatic run in with Anderson, a confrontation that will have a devastating effect on the Detective and everyone around him. Can John help him recover?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

John Watson frowned as he looked down at his watch, for what must have been the hundredth time. 

He sighed. Only five minutes had passed since the last time he had checked. He looked around, half expectantly, half knowingly. He knew only too well that he wasn't about to see his friend striding towards him, all cocky smiles and no apologies whatsoever for the fact that he had kept John waiting, once again, for little or no reason.

John muttered under his breath impatiently, “Why do I bother?”

He smiled apologetically to the couple at the table next to him, who were now watching him with obvious concern. John couldn't blame them. What must he look like? The saddest loneliest loser in London, he was sure. A man who had nothing better to do than sit on his own and talk to himself, picking at his starter. He had already been in there for half an hour and he was almost certain now that Sherlock was not coming. Maybe his irritating flat mate had forgotten. Or maybe, he had had a better offer. Yes, that was most likely it.

 _'I shouldn't be surprised'_ , John told himself, glancing down at his mobile phone.

Sherlock clearly couldn't even spare a few seconds of his precious time to send a text. If this was how Sherlock chose to treat his one and only “supposed” friend, then how exactly would he behave to a person he didn't like? John knew the answer to that one only too well, of course. He'd seen enough evidence with his own eyes of how scathing and belittling Holmes could be. And one day, John was concerned that Sherlock's sharp tongue would get him into serious trouble.

 _'And I'll be there to get dig him out of his latest hole'_ , John reasoned. _'That's what I'm here for, after all.'_

“Excuse me, sir?”

John looked up sharply. That pretty young waitress was back, with her long blond hair and too much makeup, looking down at him with a mixture of frustration and sympathy. “Can I get you something else to drink?”

“No, thank you.” John gave her an apologetic smile. “I'm really sorry about this.”

She nodded helpfully. “Yes, sir. But... and I am sorry to say this... we're really busy tonight and if your friend isn't coming...” Her words trailed off, the uncomfortable moment she now found herself in forcing her into silence.

John licked his lips, trying to think of something to say that would spare both of their blushes.

“He's just been held up. He does this. He'll be here any second. Promise.” He chuckled, trying to make light of a very embarrassing situation. “He's texted me,” he lied. “He's on his way.”

“Okay, sir.” With a sigh, she hurried away. He watched her go and saw all her colleagues turning to look at him, nudging each other, whispering. He looked away, his cheeks turning pinker with every passing second.

John wondered what half-baked excuse Sherlock would come up with this time. He imagined Sherlock now, giving his most surprised look when John would dare to enquire the next day as to the exact reason why he had been stood up yet again.

John brushed a hand back through his short hair. This could no longer be compared to anything resembling a joke. It was unfair and embarrassing and he shouldn't be expected to go through this, sitting in a packed out restaurant, on a busy Friday night, looking like a right idiot while the rest of the world got to enjoy themselves after a hard week of work.

“I'll give him ten more minutes,” John told the empty chair sitting opposite him. “Just so I can give him a piece of my mind when I see him. If I ever see him again.”

_What the Hell am I doing? I'm talking to a chair._

Ten more minutes. That was it. Then, he was gone. And John was adamant that he wouldn't be so willing to forgive and forget quite so easily this time.

_Yes, just another ten minutes._

_Then, I'm going._

He checked his watch again.

XXX

_What was I supposed to be doing tonight?_

Sherlock Holmes wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck. It was a cold night. He stood, facing a small house, the latest crime scene he had been asked to attend. He had got the call about thirty minutes previously, a request from Detective Inspector Lestrade for him to get himself promptly to Embankment as another body had been found. A third body, the latest from a very interesting serial killer, who had struck repeatedly in the last ten days.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. This one was clever. All the bodies had been found in their homes, two women and one man, all beaten, raped and strangled, with no apparent connections to each other. They definitely hadn't known each other. Sherlock was certain of that. This latest case had intrigued the Detective; the killer was different, there was almost an arty quality to his work that had fascinated Sherlock. Who was this man, for he was absolutely just one man. The police had believed there to be a gang but Sherlock had deduced differently. It was just the one man and he was picking his victims very carefully. Sherlock knew he was so close, knew he nearly had this man beaten. He needed to see this latest crime scene, needed to understand this curious and dainty killer but could not do that until he had seen the newest victim. It would answer his last few questions, he was sure of that. It would be over then, Lestrade would have his man and another case would have been solved. Another success for Sherlock. And then, he would be free. Because until he caught this killer, until he could put this one to bed, nothing else mattered. Everything else had to be pushed to the back of his mind and locked away. Because, in that moment, everything else was trivial, unimportant. That was the cold, hard truth.

_Whatever it is I've forgotten, it can wait._

He had work to do.

Sherlock strode across the road, smiling half-heartedly at the two policeman guarding the door. One he knew, with a sinking feeling, only too well.

“Hey,” came a voice that irritated Sherlock to his very core. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Inside,” Sherlock replied helpfully.

Anderson was suddenly barring his way, his colleague moving into place behind Sherlock, giving the Detective the evil eye. Holmes sighed. “Lestrade asked me here,” he said, boredom evident in his tone. “So why don't you get out of my way?”

The smug look Anderson gave him infuriated Sherlock all the more. Why did these idiots have to block him? This encounter would obviously have only one possible outcome, Lestrade ordering Anderson to assist Sherlock “any way he required,” so what was the point of playing this silly game once again? All they were doing was wasting his time!

“Check with Lestrade,” he said slowly. “He'll confirm that I'm here on his request.”

Anderson shrugged. “Doesn't matter. Detective Inspector Lestrade got called away on urgent business, leaving me in charge. He didn't mention you were coming so I'm afraid I can't let you pass.”

Sherlock shook his head incredulously. “Anderson, you know Lestrade asked me here. Now get out of the way and let me do my job.”

Anderson leaned forward. “It's not your job, it's your sick hobby. Now, be a good boy and go play someplace else. Or I will have you removed.”

Sherlock glanced at the man behind him and saw the threat was very real. He smiled at Anderson. “Fine, have it your way. You can explain to Lestrade why you didn't let me in here when I could have solved this. In addition, you can also explain to the next family why their loved one was left to die when the fourth body inevitably turns up dead. Have a good night.”

And with that, Sherlock walked away from the house. He was fuming but he kept his anger in check. He was obviously used to this reaction. He knew how much the police sans Lestrade despised him, how they were actually made uncomfortable by his very presence. Anderson though, he was the worst. He was worse because he was jealous. Thankfully though, he was also stupid and Sherlock knew that all he had to do was bide his time.

So, he waited behind a nearby wall, close enough to hear Anderson and his friend's wretched conversation about freelancers and wasters and the weather... soon their pious conversation became pure tedium for Sherlock to listen to and he sighed in annoyance, wondering when his chance would come. Finally, it did.

He heard a mobile phone ringing and quickly realised the phone belonged to Anderson's companion. The man suddenly got very excited and high pitched and Sherlock made out the words, “Jenny”, “baby” and “Christ!” and it didn't take him long to figure out that his luck was in. The man's wife or girlfriend (he quickly realised wife) had gone into labour. Anderson hugged his friend and told him he had to leave. The friend was unsure but Anderson insisted. They then walked away together hurriedly and Holmes knew he had a matter of minutes before Anderson returned. As soon as they were out of sight, Sherlock rushed out of his hiding place and ran into the house and straight upstairs. He walked into the lead bedroom and frowned. The room had been cleaned from top to bottom. He would discover nothing, no clues, no errors from the killer, no nothing. Worse of all, the body was nowhere to be seen. All that remained was the bloody sheets, which would hold little to no answers for him. It was the body he needed to inspect. And it was gone. And he knew, without too much deducing, who was to blame.

He stood there, his anger increasing with every passing second, until he heard the floor boards creaking behind him.

“I asked Lestrade to make sure nothing was touched,” he said, without looking around. “Why has the body been moved?”

Anderson frowned. “You have no business here. Can't you show the poor woman any respect?”

Sherlock turned and fixed Anderson with a look of utter contempt.

“I thought catching her killer would have been a pretty good way to start,” he replied coldly.

Anderson glared at Sherlock. The hared in his gaze was evident and Holmes pursed his lips together.

_Here we go again._

“We did our work properly here tonight, _Mister_ Holmes.” Anderson replied, through gritted teeth. “Even by your high standards. My boys have been over this place with a fine tooth comb and I myself have given it a thorough going over.” Sherlock snorted at his words and Anderson's glare intensified. “There's nothing here for you,” he added, a hint of a warning in his tone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “With all due respect,” he paused, considering that statement. “Actually, forget that, I don't actually have any respect for you; but back to the point, _that_ was for me to decide.”

Sherlock knew he was being childish but he couldn't help himself. He was incensed. _The stupid fool._ Why did men like him exist just to prevent Sherlock from doing what he was so damned good at? Why couldn't they see that a little assistance and trust would help all of them get to the result everyone wanted? A killer outsmarted and caught. Or was this man's pride more important than preventing this murdering scum bag from killing again?

“For your information,” he offered, “Lestrade asked me here for my help. He wouldn't appreciate you blocking me. If I'm to assist you at all, I need to see that body. Now.”

“ _That_ body?” Anderson shook his head disapprovingly. “Do you actually care that you are talking about a victim there, Sherlock? She was a young woman, now she's a corpse. Tell me, are you even _human_?”

Sherlock had no answer. He was there to solve the case, not to grieve for the life lost. It wasn't his place.

“You need to leave,” Anderson snapped. “There's nothing here to see. Sorry but you've had a wasted journey.”

“Lestrade wanted me here.”

“Lestrade can make mistakes,” he retorted, “and you're his biggest, as far as I'm concerned.” He gestured towards the door. “And I think you'll find that he left me in charge, Mister Holmes, and I am asking you once again, politely might I add, to leave this crime scene right now and stay gone.” He leaned forward, his tone lowered. “Or would you prefer for me to have you arrested for contaminating a crime scene?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and then shook his head in his impatience. “Why is it so hard for you to admit that you all need me? This case needs me.”

“Matter of opinion,” came the sarcastic reply.

He had heard enough. “Grow up, man.”

Anderson stepped towards him. “Seeing as I do apparently have to repeat myself, I'll make this clear for you. I'm in control here. You are not welcome. This is my crime scene and I want you out of my sight!”

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. Did the idiot really believe himself superior? “Well,” Sherlock replied quietly, “I'll have to tell Lestrade that next time he may as well leave a dancing monkey in charge.” He paused, theatrically looking Anderson up and down. “Well, now that I come to think about it...”

Anderson saw red. He cut the space between himself and Sherlock, almost nose to nose with the now-smiling other man. Anderson was barely keeping his ever growing anger in check. He clenched his fists and glared daggers at Sherlock.

“What worries me,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing, “is that you don't seem to have anywhere else to be but here, in this house, bothering me. Normal people have friends, family. Boyfriends and girlfriends...”

“Wives and mistresses, you mean?” Holmes interjected and, despite his cheeks reddening, Anderson ignored him and carried on as if there had been no interruption.

“Normal people have places to visit on a Friday night, real normal lives. I'm guessing you don't. You have nobody. Who'd want to hang around with a loser like you anyway?”

It was Sherlock's turn to glare. That comment actually stung. “I was asked here,” he repeated softly. “By your boss.”

Anderson flicked his hair back. He saw the sudden change in Sherlock's stance, sensed the other man was actually uncomfortable, and he liked it. “Speaking of friends,” he asked, with a smirk, “where's your little shadow?”

“What?”

“Forgotten him already, have you? You know, the sad little cripple that treks along after you, always a step behind. The soldier boy who is suffering so much with PTSD, he got himself all confused and actually befriended London's number one freak!”

Sherlock didn't even think. He didn't know why he did it. Was it for him or for John? All he knew was one second he was calmly standing there, the next he had sent his fist straight into the other man's sneering face, knocking Anderson backwards.

“Don't call me a freak,” Sherlock hissed.

Anderson was stunned by the blow momentarily but he quickly recovered and sprang forward in retaliation, punching Sherlock hard, sending the taller man flying into the fireplace behind him. Sherlock collided with the selection of ornaments resting on top of the fireplace and could only watch as, one after another, the delicate objects crashed to the ground, smashing into a million pieces as they landed. The noise was deafening.

Anderson was aghast.

“Now look! Look what you've done to my crime scene!” He rushed past Sherlock, and stopped beside the debris, clearly wondering where to start. “I could get fired for this!” He suddenly looked very tired. “Will you just leave now?”

Sherlock calmly wiped at his bloody nose with a handkerchief. He placed it back into the pocket he had pulled it from and then turned to face Anderson once again.

“You know what, Anderson? I would be very pleased to walk away and watch, from a distance, as you and your colleagues bumble your way through this case. Maybe the papers should be informed. The public should definitely be warned that such an inept prick is supposedly helping to protect them from an expert killer.” Sherlock was red- faced now. He no longer cared how cruel his words were or how incensed the other man became due to them; he was furious with this man who he saw as an obstacle in his way and he would belittle him any possible way he could. “I won't do that, though, even though you all deserve it. I'll stay here, because I promised Lestrade, and I will catch this murdering bastard and save yet more lives. If you would KINDLY LET ME GET ON WITH IT!” The last words were shouted with such venom, Sherlock actually slammed his fist into the wall to control his anger.

Anderson merely stared at him. He was clearly surprised to see the usually pompous, contained man lose his calm so spectacularly.

He cleared his throat and then stepped closer to the now trembling Sherlock.

“You seem a bit frustrated, Sherlock."

Holmes didn't reply.

Anderson sneered. “It says a lot, you know, that, as Sally says, you're turned on by crime and violence, even death. It's the pain and brutality isn't it? It makes up for your not getting any?”

Sherlock's eyes widened. He, for once, was speechless. How was he supposed to respond to this? With a deep breath, he turned his back on the other man. He had to regain his composure. All he had wanted was the chance to see that body! That was all he had cared about! How had a simple favour descended into such madness?

Anderson, knowing he unexpectedly had the advantage, leaned in closer. “You can tell me the truth, Mister Holmes.” He lowered his voice and smiled, as if he was whispering a secret to a friend. “Are you still a virgin?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He kept his head down.

Don't rise to it. You're better than him.

“Did John turn you down?” the other man continued, aiming to hurt. “Is that it, Holmes? Is that why your loyal little puppy isn't following at your heels tonight?” He chuckled and Holmes could feel himself burning with embarrassment and anger. He fought to keep calm and not blow up again but Anderson kept on, his hateful words causing more harm than his fists ever could. “Are you not man enough even for a terrified, lost little army boy like your poor Doctor Watson?”

Anderson paused. He regarded the silent Holmes, now apparently frozen to the spot. He was pretty sure his spiteful words had hit home and he wanted to go in for the kill. He would finally get the last word against this arrogant, self-important, pompous arsehole.

“What's wrong, freak?” he urged. “Have I hurt your feelings? Didn't know you had any.” Another chuckle. “I mean, lets face it, I'm not surprised John Watson got bored of you.” He took a step forward. “Lets face it, Holmes. Look at you.” He leaned closer. “You make fun of me because of Sally. At least she wants me. Who could ever love a worthless piece of scum like you?”

With that, Anderson hushed. He was finally satisfied. And he stood there, hands in pockets, waiting. He could see how tense Holmes had become, saw his shoulders were shaking. He wondered how far he had pushed him.

He soon found out.

Sherlock, with a shout, turned quickly and attacked Anderson. He no longer cared about repercussions or what would happen to him following his ill-judged attack on a police officer. He just wanted the other man to shut up, just to stop. He hit out at his enemy but Anderson parried the blow easily. They grappled for some time, both throwing punches and each gaining the upper hand over the other before a well-aimed kick or fist would bring the other back on equal terms once more. They threw each other around the small room and Holmes found himself on top of the other man, and, forgetting himself, lost with all the adrenaline, began to beat on his rival. He rained down punch after punch on that smirking face and just as he could feel Anderson beginning to still and could almost taste his certain victory, the unmistakable sound of a vibrating mobile suddenly filled the air. He paused mid-punch, surprised by the foreign sound. That split second of uncertainty was all a now delighted and crazed Anderson needed. He struck Sherlock hard in the face, knocking the other man back, and Sherlock, off balance and dazed, crashed to the ground. As he went down, there was a sickening crunch as his head struck against the marble fireplace. He didn't move, just lay on his belly, moaning softly, still conscious but only barely. He tried to move but couldn't; he was stunned by the unexpected blow and all he could see was stars before his eyes.

And he was completely defenceless.

Anderson, fingering his bruised and bloody face, stood over him, breathing hard, his face triumphant. He wanted to make Sherlock pay, wanted to hear him cry out and beg. He began to kick the helpless man repeatedly, each blow only gaining him a low moan from the prone man. Anderson was out of control; he felt like a man possessed. He had spent months being belittled and mistreated by this arrogant fruitcake and now, he had him at his mercy. And suddenly, an idea came to him. He stopped kicking Sherlock and stared down at him instead, both repulsed and fascinated by the thought that had struck him. The image he suddenly saw in his mind did disgust him, that was true, but, right then, in that moment, it seemed like the sweetest possible revenge. A second later, he had come to a decision.

It was sick. And wrong.

_It was perfect._

He smiled evilly.

He quickly began to unbuckle his belt, his fingers shaking so much in anticipation, he made a hard job of it.

Something, somewhere deep inside of him was telling him to stop, telling him he wasn't this kind of man and to think. He ignored that voice.

Anderson pulled down his trousers and boxers in one fluid motion and then leaned over the still unmoving Sherlock like a hunter waiting to devour his prey.

“You want to know how worthless you are?” he spat nastily as he grabbed for Sherlock again, trapping the taller man beneath him. “You want to know what you are good for?”

He twisted Sherlock's arm painfully behind his back and held him in place. Sherlock gasped, wondering if the other man would actually break his wrist. He attempted to pull his arm free, struggling vainly against the iron grip, but it was useless. His movements were still disjointed and sloppy thanks to the crippling blow to his head; try as he might he just could not focus, and the room would not stop spinning. He knew he was in a very weak state and his adversary was taking full advantage. And Sherlock was scared. It was a sensation that was alien to him and he didn't like it.

“Let go of me,” he muttered before he could prevent himself. “You're breaking my wrist.”

“Am I?” Anderson laughed coldly. “You're so clever. Stop me.”

There was a second's relief when the other man released his grip, but then Sherlock went icy cold when he felt his jeans being unbuckled and pulled down over his hips. Very soon, he could feel the cold air against his bare skin and he wanted to fight, to kick out with all he was worth to stop this from happening but he simply couldn't make his limbs obey. It was as if he was frozen in place. He shivered, and again tried in vain to break away from the other man's bruising hold on him, but he was pinned firmly. This could not be happening to him. All he could do was lie there and try to stay calm. It would only add to his dire situation if he panicked now.

What did Anderson think he was doing? What kind of point was he trying to prove?

“Stop this,” Sherlock moaned, desperate. “Have you gone mad?” And then loudly, despite the grogginess, he demanded, as firmly as he could, “Get your hands off of me, Anderson!”

“Not so fucking high and mighty now, are you?” Anderson shot back as he lifted Holmes' hips, forcing the other man onto all fours. Shame seized Sherlock as he could do nothing but kneel as Anderson required him to. He could only imagine how pathetic and weak he must look to the man positioned behind him. His horror increased when he felt Anderson's sweaty fingers, poking and probing at his entrance. “Maybe this will teach you to keep your big fucking nose out of other people's lives,” the man on top of him growled.

Sherlock fought to keep his breathing under control. “Anderson,” he said, as calmly as he could muster. “Please don't do this. It has gone too far.”

He cried out then as his hair was suddenly grabbed painfully and his head flung back. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut from the sudden pain. He cringed when he felt Anderson's lips against his ear. “Shut your fucking mouth, freak!” His head was then thrown forward again. Sherlock knew there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. His genius mind was of no help to him now. So, he tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming.

But _nothing_ could have prepared him for the horror that happened next.

Anderson suddenly thrusted forward without even bothering with any further preparation. Both men cried out, Anderson in a mixture of pain and triumph, Sherlock just in his agony. His eyes shot open as his body was ruthlessly invaded and he cried out in horror, until a hand was quickly clamped over his mouth, smothering his cries. Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks and he fought to keep them at bay. He would not allow this bastard to see him cry. His whole being was in agony as Anderson continued to pound into him mercilessly. It took Holmes a few more seconds to comprehend exactly what was happening to him. He was being raped. Raped because the other man, a man in a position of trust, could not stand the fact that Sherlock was cleverer than he was. That he was more important than Anderson was. Sherlock knew he was being torn deep inside, he could feel the blood beginning to seep down his thighs. He had never felt pain like it. Sherlock squirmed when he heard the hateful man on top of him grunting. He knew what those sounds meant; this wasn't only punishment for Anderson, the other man was actually enjoying himself.

“Oh Jesus, you're so tight!” the crazed man yelled. He was euphoric. “Come on, Sherlock, you love to talk, don't you?” He pulled out again and pushed back in with full, agonizing force causing his victim to cry out again and Anderson was delighted. “Tell me what it feels like to have me fucking you, freak? How superior to me are you now? On your knees, with me inside you? Why don't you tell me what you can fucking deduce from that?” He slapped Sherlock's thighs gleefully as he continued his relentless assault.

Sherlock pursed his lips together, desperate to not make another sound. He wouldn't do as he was told, nor would he beg Anderson again. He didn't want to give the bastard any more satisfaction. He winced as his body was maneuvered around to give the grunting man in control of his body easier access, and he wondered how much longer this torture would last? Just how much longer was he supposed to endure this?

At long last, he felt Anderson speeding up and knew the man was close. Sherlock gritted his teeth as Anderson grabbed his hair in another painful grip, forcing the wretched man's head up again so he could yell triumphantly into his victim's ear as he shot his load into the other man's body. He released Sherlock then and collapsed on top of him, utterly spent. After a moment, he allowed Sherlock to fall back to the ground, once again smacking his forehead against that damned fireplace. Holmes lay there, beaten, as the other man stood above him, tucking himself back into his trousers. Sherlock didn't dare try to move. He'd never felt so degraded, so disgusted with himself in his life.

He was a whore. As worthless as Anderson had said.

Anderson was still standing over him, regarding his defeated enemy. But now, his face was no longer red with maddening rage and hatred. The mist had apparently lifted, and it seemed realisation had set in. Anderson, now as white as a sheet, brought a shaky hand up to his mouth as he gazed down at the poor, broken man at his feet. For a few moments, he didn't speak.

Finally, he leaned forward.

“Y-you had to keep pushing me, d-didn't you?” he stammered. “I d-didn't mean... I'm n-not... Oh God.”

That confidence, that reveling in his new found power over another human being, had suddenly disappeared. Now, Anderson appeared frightened and horrified by his own actions. Looking around, he saw Sherlock's torn coat lying in a heap on the floor and he walked over, bent down and scooped it up. He then, confusingly for the freaked Sherlock, placed the coat over the other man's trembling form.

Anderson then pulled out his own mobile phone, staring down at it as if he didn't know how it had arrived in his hand. He mumbled something to himself. Sherlock could just make out the word, “ambulance,” before Anderson began to dial a number. As he brought the handset up to his ear though, he seemed to have second thoughts.

“I can't,” he said, more to himself. “My life would be over.”

Sherlock didn't respond.

Anderson knelt down beside him. “We can't tell anyone about this. You know that, right?”

Again, Sherlock ignored him. He just wanted the man gone.

But his silence sent Anderson into even more panic. He grabbed Sherlock roughly, causing him to cry out. “Did you hear what I said?” he demanded. “Neither of us can ever tell anyone what happened here tonight. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock flinched, pulling his arm out of Anderson's shaky grasp and recoiling away from the man. He murmured three words and Anderson had to strain to hear him: “I won't tell.”

Anderson sagged with relief at this and nodded appreciatively. “Good. That's good. We'll just forget it ever happened then and move on. I heard your phone buzz; it must be in your coat. You can call John Watson. You'll be fine.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at Anderson, with something akin to disdain.

“He's a doctor. He'll know what's happened to me.”

Anderson shook his head. “You'll think of something; a mind like yours can make up anything!” He patted Sherlock's arm then, ignoring how the other man edged further into the fireplace to keep away from him. “There's a lot of blood but you can explain that, can't you? And I'll back up your story, whatever you choose to say!” Anderson was clearly now only just clinging on to his sanity, apparently deciding that he and Sherlock were on the same side, that this was their secret to share. His brain apparently could not accept that he had just brutally raped another man.

Sherlock was happy to go along with his insanity. He never wanted another soul to know about what had occurred between them. Ever.

He, very gratefully, saw that Anderson was finally done with him. He turned his back on Sherlock , only stopping to lean down and pick up his own jacket from the floor. He then slowly moved through the doorway and made his way down the stairs and out of the house, not even bothering, or unable to bring himself, to look back.

Sherlock lay there, not daring to move or speak for some time. He closed his eyes, trying to get his impressive brain to digest what had just happened to him. The pain was coursing through him in waves. He was in agony and knew he was still bleeding.

He was frightened and confused. What should he do? How was he going to get home? He realised, with a sinking feeling, that he couldn't even remember where he was. He was Sherlock Holmes. Didn't he know everything? But all he knew now was that he was finished. Anderson had won. He turned over very gingerly, swearing from the sudden movement. He pushed his coat away from him angrily and then pulled up his trousers with shaky fingers, humiliated and embarrassed.

How could he let this happen?

He then remembered something Anderson had said to him, when the man had apparently been filled with remorse—an idea that should have come to Sherlock long before Anderson thought of it. He crawled over to where his coat now lay and pulled it towards him, gasping with the agony caused by every movement. He found his right pocket and pulled out his phone, surprised to see he had many missed calls and numerous texts.

“Must have been on silent,” he said out loud, almost conversationally. He knew he was beginning to shut down, that his body and mind were exhausted. He wanted to sleep. No, he needed sleep. Some rest would help him, make him think clearly. First though, he would look at a text, just one. He was curious. He had always been curious. The old him. Gone now.

As he read the message, his heart stopped.

_“Thanks for nothing. Have a good night.”_

And then, he remembered. He had meant to meet someone tonight. He had arranged with his one friend a night out, a meal and perhaps the cinema. He grimaced. Why had he organised that? He hated going to the cinema. Those pathetic plots were insulting.

Then, he knew.

He had planned that night out to please his friend.

To please the one man he knew he wanted to be with at that moment. His one friend and only human being in the world who would be able to help him, who would know the right thing to say to put this right. The man that would save him.

The man who would protect him from the monsters.

Now, the tears started to fall once again as Sherlock pulled himself painfully to his feet.

He would go to him.

He wanted him. He wanted his comfort, his company.

No. It was more than that. He _needed_ him.

He pressed a button on his handset and then brought the phone carefully up to his ear.

It rang four times before his friend finally answered. A very gruff, tired voice spoke up.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

 _“John._ ” He groaned. “ _Help me._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for such an amazing response to chapter one, guys! I'll be posting one (or sometimes two) chapters a day... Enjoy!

John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stared out of the window as the taxi drove on. He gazed out into the darkness, a scowl on his face. This should have been a good night for him, a nice meal out and perhaps even a good movie at the cinema. That's what he believed anyway. He should have known better. 

A fun Friday night out is what normal people do. John knew there was not on thing _normal_ about his friend, or now him, apparently. And he was still angry with Sherlock for the way he had been treated.

He had received the weird phone call, strange even for Sherlock, in which his friend, in a small, pained voice, had asked for his help. John had inquired for more information but, typically, Sherlock had not been forthcoming. He had simply replied with; “Get the address from Lestrade and John, please come quickly.” And then, the call had been disconnected. For a long moment, John had seriously contemplated leaving Sherlock “to it” and not bothering to answer the plea for help. But John was not that kind of man, despite him actually believing that Sherlock might well deserve that response. So, he had called Lestrade. One embarrassing conversation with the very irritated Inspector later, John had the address he needed and had quickly found himself outside, trying to flag down a taxi. And now, here he was, heading across London, racing to his friend's aid. Again.

And none of these events had exactly improved John's mood. In fact, he had told himself that the reason he was mainly complying with Sherlock here was so he would actually have the chance to have a serious talk with his friend.

 _Why does he even need me this time?_ John wondered. _Probably just wants my money for his taxi fare home._

John sighed in annoyance. If Sherlock wanted him to fetch his wallet for him, the wallet that John completely expected to be in Sherlock's pocket, the whole time, he would smack him. Sherlock needed to realise that John was not his errand boy. The truth was that John had been worrying for some time if that was what Sherlock truly saw him as, just a servant or a tool to be used when he required him. John frowned. Could it be that Sherlock actually saw their friendship as nothing more than a handy working arrangement? Sherlock would bark his orders and John would be expected to obey, without question, happy to be entertained by Sherlock's “nuttiness?” Well, if that was the case, John would not let it carry on for one day more. It would end tonight. John Watson was worth more than this and he was about to let Sherlock know it. And if it cost him their friendship, well, at least he would finally know where he stood.

“This is it, mate,” the taxi driver suddenly announced, startling John out of his thoughts. The driver tapped the wheel impatiently and then gestured to a row of houses across the road. John had a quick look and sighed. Typically bleak. Would go really well with the rest of his night then. Perfect.

He paid the man his fare, pulled open the door and, with some difficulty, climbed out of the car.

He grimaced. His leg was playing him up tonight. 

_Figures._

He glanced down at the paper in his hand as the taxi continued on, leaving him behind in the cold, damp street. He used the glow on his mobile phone to light up the paper still in his hand and read the address once again. Number 32, Pipers Lane. He began to walk from house to house, leaning on his walking stick with each step, checking the houses he passed for it's number or name. He wrapped his jacket tightly around himself, feeling chilly. He was annoyed at himself for feeling the need to bring his stick, but his leg was hurting him. Just something else to blame Sherlock for...

As he walked by, he didn't spot another soul or see any vehicles. He was surprised by how quiet the street was. He stole a look at his watch. Just gone midnight on a Saturday morning. It was strange that any street in London could be this deserted, especially for a Friday night. 

He was even more surprised when he found Number 32. Hr stood, gaping, looking from the paper to the house repeatedly. 32 Pipers Lane. This was the house.

There was nobody around. It didn't make any sense. Lestrade had told him there would be two men on the door when he got there and he was to mention to them that Lestrade had given him permission to enter and assist Sherlock Holmes. The property was taped off but there was no sign of activity, not one police officer on guard. This was a crime scene! How could it have been left unmanned? Lestrade had told him to expect trouble as he had left Anderson in charge but he couldn't see the uptight young man anywhere. And it was very unlike Anderson to skive off of his duties. An uneasy feeling was growing in the pit of John's stomach and he heard Sherlock's voice in his ear again, remembering how uncharacteristicely quiet his friend had sounded. John gave himself a little shake. If something had been badly wrong, surely Sherlock would have mentioned something? There was very likely a logical explanation. It was a given that Sherlock and Anderson would have had heated words and Anderson had probably stormed off in a huff. And Sherlock? Well, he had probably deduced what there was to deduce in this house and have wandered off, or decided to make his own way home after all, forgetting he had even called John. If that turned out to be the case, John would _kill_ him. 

Everything would be fine and Sherlock would be waiting for John back at Bakers Street, that superior, smug smile on his face. 

John was worrying about nothing. 

_So why had he sounded so scared?_

John shivered as he stepped up to the front door. He hesitated, unsure what he should do and then he nervously tapped on the door.

For a moment, he heard nothing. He rapped then, loudly. Still nothing.

“Hello?” He called.

And then he heard a very soft voice from inside. “It's open.”

John frowned. Was that Sherlock? It didn't sound like him. That voice sounded edgy, exhausted. It certainly wasn't the confident, loud tones he was used to.

“Sherlock, is that you?” He asked.

No reply. 

John hesitated. After a momentary pause, he took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. He crept inside, immediately knocking into something hard and painful and he cursed loudly. Looking around, trying unsuccessfully to grow accustomed to the dark, it immediately hit the Doctor just how cold and unwelcoming the house was and he couldn't say he was surprised. It was so dark, so _empty._ Terrible events had happened here. A woman had been brutally murdered and John had read things. Houses could remember. The thought chilled him to the bone.

He rubbed his hands together for comfort. He groped around in the pitch blackness, trying to find a light switch. He was desperate to get some warmth in the place. 

“John.”

The Doctor jumped about in a foot in the air. Was the bloody man trying to give him a heart attack? 

He tried to keep the tremble out of his voice as he replied, quietly, “Sherlock?” Then, more urgently, “Where are you?”

He heard something fidget in the blackness.

“I'm here.”

John looked in the direction of the voice and saw the outline of a tall man sitting not far away from him. John couldn't help but feel a flash of relief. Thank God he was alright. John swallowed down his fear as he stumbled towards Sherlock. He didn't want the other man to know right then how worried he had been.

Of course, if there had been light on the subject, John would have been even more concerned. Especially if he had observed how his friend recoiled away from him as he approached. 

Instead, John felt only annoyance as he stopped in front of Sherlock. 

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” He demanded

“It helps,” came the sullen reply.

John blinks. “It helps what?”

He could almost see Sherlock giving him a belittling look. He tightened his hold on his walking stick.

“It helps me to think clearly, John;” Sherlock replied quietly.

John shook his head. Now, that sounded like the old Sherlock. And he was in one of his cryptic moods. What fun.

Still not being able to see Sherlock clearly, despite being close enough to touch him, John leaned forward. He saw then that Sherlock was sat on the bottom step of the staircase. He stabbed his stick down beside Sherlock and this time he did feel his friend flinch but in that moment, he was too irritated to care. So he chose to ignore it. He was in no mood for Sherlock's eccentricity that night.

“Okay,” John began, “What couldn't wait until morning then?” He waited but there was no reply. He tried again, his voice rising along with his temper. “Sherlock? Why did I have to come here then, at this time of night?” He slammed his hands against his sides. “There's nothing here! What the Hell is so important?”

Sherlock still did not answer him.

John clenched his fists in frustration. He may not be able to see Sherlock's facial expression but he could certainly picture it. Sherlock would have that haughty look about him right about then, probably thinking that John should feel flattered that Sherlock chose to include him. This time.

“Are you going to talk to me?” John snapped.

“Is the taxi still here?”

John was taken aback.

“What?” He inquired. That was not the response he had expected.

Sherlock sighed wearily. “The taxi you came here in.” There was a slight edge of arrogance returning suddenly to his tone. “I'm assuming you didn't walk.”

John reddened. “No, I didn't walk;” He threw back. “Would have been a bit too far.” 

Sherlock seemed to ignore that comment. “So,” he continued; “ _Did_ you ask the driver to wait?”

John was completely thrown. And typically, he felt guilty. _Should_ he have asked the taxi driver to wait for him? The street was so quiet. Where would they find another car now? _Dammit!_ John suddenly felt angry. Why was he now questioning himself? Was he meant to be a mind reader now? How was he damn well supposed to have known Sherlock wanted the taxi?

“The taxi has gone,” he snapped. “I didn't know you wanted me to hold onto it.”

He felt Sherlock fidget slightly and heard a low moan. He frowned. What was the matter with him?

“So definitely no taxi?” Sherlock whispered.

John was nearly at the end of his tether. Was he playing some kind of game?

“That's right Sherlock,” he snapped back. “Absolutely no taxi.”

“I see.”

At that, John could take no more. He had put up with enough that night and now he was furious, more with himself if he was honest, that Sherlock had actually made him feel guilty. And now he was going to say this piece.

“ _I see_ ,” he echoed, “Is that all you can say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Oh, I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe the word _sorry_ would be a good place to start?”

“Why?”

John wanted to hit him, he really did. 

“WHY?” He wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him, shake some sense into him. “God damn it, Sherlock. I waited for you tonight for an hour before I gave up. We were supposed to eat out, remember? I booked a table and everything and you made me look like a complete moron, sitting there like billy no mates, all on my own! You couldn't even be bothered to send me a text! Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”

He paused for breath. He could sense that Sherlock was upset, and made uncomfortable by his rant. Good. About time he had it drilled into him. You can't treat people like second class citizens and expect them just to get over it. He had to learn. 

So John carried on.

“And then, if leaving me in that restaurant for an hour wasn't bad enough, you then wake me up and drag me out here, without any explanation, and also making me interrupt an important meeting at Scotland Yard may I add, don't expect Lestrade to be to happy next time he sees you, and you still won't tell me what the hell is going on!” He leaned closer. “Where is everyone? Where is Anderson, I'm assuming it's your fault he's not here? What did you do to upset him this time?”

Again, his friend flinched. 

_I'm getting to him._

“You don't trust me at all, do you?” 

Sherlock said nothing for a long time. Finally, he whispered, very quietly; “I'm sorry I didn't text you tonight. I forgot about the meal, and my phone was on silent. I was so caught up with the case. I don't have any other excuse.”

John was stunned by the sudden, heartfelt apology. Again, he was unnerved by this very out of character behavior for his friend, and this time he was the one who found himself speechless.

“And just so you know, you're the _only_ person I trust.” 

John was astounded. Sherlock had never been so open with him. He just stood there. He didn't know how to react. It hit him again, full on this time, just how bizarre his friend's behaviour had been.

“Sherlock, what happened to you tonight?” He asked him kindly.

The Detective let out a loud sigh. “I need to go home, John.” Holding on to the wall for support, Sherlock got slowly and painfully to his feet. He swayed on the spot, and John saw this only to well. He also heard Sherlock grimace and his own concern grew with every passing second. 

Something was seriously wrong here. 

He tried again, this time attempting to go for the light approach. “Okay Sherlock, you've got me worried now! He smiled, not very genuinely. “What's happened?”

The Detective took an uncertain step forward. “Nothing. I just want to get away from here.” There was desperation in his voice now and John saw that his friend was still clinging to the wall. “Now?” A breath. “Please?”

John reached out a hand for him. “Are you sure you are alright.”

Sherlock recoiled from the outstretched hand as if he had been burned and John was madly struck by how well his friend could see in the dark. “I'm fine,” Sherlock said, too quickly. “I just need to rest.”

John was frightened now. He reached out to steady himself against the same wall as Sherlock and, with relief, suddenly felt the light switch. _Thank God._ Now, at least he would be able to see. Quickly, he flipped the switch, and instantly bright light flooded the room. 

Both men reacted to the sudden light. Where as John merely raised an arm to protect his eyes from the sudden glare, Sherlock's reaction was far more panicked. He gasped as the light suddenly appeared, and instantly covered his face with his hands, moaning in discomfort.

“Turn it off, John.” He whimpered. “Please! It's too bright.” 

John stared at his friend. His coat was torn and covered in dirt, and his hair was dishevelled. He also noticed, with a sinking feeling, how Sherlock was hiding every inch of his face. Being careful not to panic Sherlock further, John began to slowly walk towards him.

“Look at me, Sherlock.” He ordered calmly.

“It's nothing to for you to be worried about." Sherlock snapped. He didn't move his hands. “Lets just go.”

John's heart was pounding in his chest. And he was terrified.

_“Look at me!”_

Very slowly and apologetically, Sherlock lowered his hands, and his eyes met John's. The Doctor's own face instantly filled with anger. Sherlock was sporting a nasty black eye and other bruising to his face, but John was mainly concerned about the blood dripping from a wound to his friend's head. He lightly fingered Sherlock's bruises and saw, with sadness, how his friend was forcing back tears. John frowned. Typical Sherlock, never show any weaknesses. Not even to his dearest friend. John needed to check the other man out properly, he could ascertain that the man had many more injuries than what he could see in front of him. 

He was also very aware that Sherlock was shaking in agony.

John swallowed hard. “Who did this to you?”

Sherlock pushed John's hands away.

“I told you, it's not important.” Now, Sherlock sounded annoyed. “I don't need you fussing.”

The doctor was almost beside himself. He had no idea how badly hurt Sherlock was and if his friend didn't start assisting him, things could go from bad to worse very quickly. 

“Sherlock,” he implored. “We need to get you to a hospital...” 

“NO!” Sherlock suddenly shouted, taking John by surprise. “I told you, I'm alright and I meant it! I don't need any hospitals!” He gestured towards the door. “Please, I just want to go home and forget tonight even happened. Lets try and find a taxi?” He stared pleadingly at John. “Please?”

_What was the point?_

“Okay,” John agreed, very unhappily. But he knew he couldn't force his point. Sherlock was to stubborn.

The Detective gave him a grateful nod and then turned towards the door.

And that was when John saw the blood. There was a nasty red stain soaking through Sherlock's large coat. So much blood. Too much blood. John looked up the stairway, and he nearly stopped breathing. There was a trail of blood leading up the steps. John had seen enough blood to last him a life time, he was doctor and had fought in Afghanistan after all but this, this was more shocking than anything he had ever seen before. Because, he knew. He understood, with sickening realisation, the reason why Sherlock had acted so oddly that night. John paled instantly. He swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to vomit and tried desperately to stay calm. He couldn't lose it now. 

_Whoever dared to touch him,_ John knew, with absolute clarity, _would pay._

But there would be time to worry about who did this and how. Right now, he had to worry about his friend. He was all the mattered. And first, John would have to convince him that he desperately needed help.

“Sherlock?” He said, gently. “Did someone force themselves on you?”

Sherlock froze, leaning against the front door, his hand wrapped around the knob. He still had his back to John and then, as he slowly turned to face him once more, John could see he was deathly pale. And when he tried to meet John's eyes again, the Doctor could see he could no longer focus.

“John,” Sherlock whispered weakly. “Maybe I'm not quite so alright after all.”

And then, Sherlock could feel himself falling. He was falling so far and he was going to hit the ground and it was going to hurt and John knew and everyone would know and it was getting dark and he was glad it was getting dark and he wanted to sleep. He wanted to forget. As he finally surrendered to that darkness, Sherlock could just hear John, though he sounded so far away, calling his name, over and over. And then he could feel his best friend's arms around him, holding him close and he knew he was safe as the inviting blackness consumed him, and finally, he knew no more.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

John stared straight ahead, perched right on the edge of his plastic seat, gazing into space. He grasped a small cup of coffee in his right hand, a drink he had barely touched. 

They’d arrived at the hospital a few hours before and Sherlock, in danger from the amount of blood he had lost, had been rushed into surgery. That had been four hours ago. And no one had bothered to let John know anything that had happened since. He had no idea how his friend was. He trusted that he would have been told if there had been any complications, or worse.

John shivered. He hated hospitals. Strange way to be for a doctor, but it was the truth. Hospitals were cold, heartless places and John, having spent plenty of his life in them, had needed to get away. So he had run a long way, all the way to Afghanistan. He shook his head. As if war were any kind of improvement. It was just as horrific as seeing all that pain and suffering close to home, it was only that the horrors he had experienced at war were a whole different kind of evil to that he had seen in England.

He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, trying to keep himself awake. How long had he been sat there now? When were they going to bring him news? He glanced down at his watch. Four thirty. He placed his hands in his lap, trying to stop them from shaking, unable to shake off the despair he felt. He kept seeing Sherlock's frightened face as his friend had fallen down, to weak from blood loss to remain on his feet a moment longer. And all that time he'd been hurting, pleading with John to take him home, what had John been droning on about? How to be a real friend! John snorted. 

_It's a shame I couldn't have followed my own advice._

He heard voices coming from down the hall and he looked up expectantly, only to be disappointed once again as yet more nurses hurried past him. He wondered what they were doing to Sherlock at that moment, how surgery had gone. It wasn't as if he couldn't imagine, he knew only too well what they would be performing on his friend, fixing him up and making him well again. As if it would be that easy. 

John wished in some ways that he could be happily unknowing of how much his friend had suffered. But he did know. Sherlock had been raped. He had been held down and his insides had been torn to shreds. And John felt sickened. He had seen Sherlock's injuries for himself. As soon as Sherlock had passed out, John had called for an ambulance and in the long twenty minutes it had taken for the emergency services to arrive, he’d seen if he could do anything to help Sherlock. He had stopped the flow of blood temporarily and cleaned Sherlock before the paramedics had arrived to tale over. They’d mentioned that he had done a good job under difficult circumstances – in fact, they’d told him, he might even have saved his friends life.

John had been unable to accept this compliment. If he had been a better doctor, if he had been a better friend, then he would have noticed sooner how seriously hurt Sherlock was. If he had stopped verbally attacking the detective just for a second, he might have noticed how much Sherlock had needed him, and he'd have seen exactly how much pain his friend was truly in.

Guilt seized John. He had let Sherlock down. The man had been through a horrific ordeal and he had only added to his agony. How could Sherlock ever forgive him for those horrible things he had said? How could he ever forgive himself?

He closed his eyes again and this time bowed his head, actually wanting to give in to the sleep that was creeping up on him. He was so tired, his thoughts so dark and bleak. Some sleep would help him think more clearly. That's the advice Sherlock would give him, anyway.

If he just rested his eyes for a moment, he wouldn't miss anything.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock._

Just a few moments of shut eye...

Sherlock was screaming. John couldn't get to him. He was trying but his friend was the other side of the street and there were too many cars between them and there were so many people and the man was laughing and Sherlock was calling for him and the man was reaching for Sherlock and there was nothing he could do and he was so useless and couldn't do a damned thing...

“Doctor Watson?”

John was startled out of his dream abruptly and he jumped in surprise. The cold cup in his hand dropped to the floor like a stone, spilling liquid all over the floor. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood in front of the still drowsy doctor, his eyes on the mess now on the ground at his feet. He gave Watson a concerned look, whispering a greeting, and then called out for someone to fetch a cloth. Handing over a new, piping hot cup of coffee, he moved to sit down beside the exhausted smaller man and crossed his arms over his chest, not speaking for a few moments.

Finally, it was John who broke the silence.

“How did you know we were here?” he asked softly.

Lestrade frowned. “Anderson found out, actually. He was brought here earlier tonight by his wife – you'll see why when he makes it back in here with that cloth – and just happened to be leaving when you and Sherlock arrived. He saw you from a distance and saw what a bad way Sherlock was in. So, he called me. I finished all my meetings up North and then came straight here with Anderson.” He paused, glancing at John. “How is he?”

John grimaced. He brushed a hand uncomfortably though his hair.

“How much do you know?”

The Inspector cleared his throat. “Only that he was attacked in that house and left for dead.”

John sighed. He turned to face Lestrade. He had no idea how much information he should give the policeman, whether Sherlock would be happy for him to do so, but he also knew that Lestrade had a job to do. They would all want him to find Sherlock's rapist, the quicker the better, before he or they attacked again. So John made up his mind that the best idea was for him to be completely honest and open with the Inspector. He was, after all, the closest thing Sherlock did actually have to a friend, besides John himself

“They raped him, Lestrade.” John said, in a low, strained voice. “Whoever did this, they beat him, almost to the point of unconsciousness, and then held him down and,” he hesitated, “fucked him.” He brought a shaky hand to his forehead, suddenly noticing he was suffering from a dull headache. The Inspector put a supportive hand on John's shoulder, waiting for him to continue. He was obviously struggling to find the appropriate words to comfort the younger man. What could he say? 

John gave himself a little shake. Falling apart would not help anyone. He had to get through this, it was his job to be there for Sherlock. Who else would be? He turned and stared at the Detective beside him. 

“You won't believe the state of him, Lestrade. The brutality of it.” Another pause. “Whoever did this,” John whispered, his voice trembling with barely concealed rage; “ _They tore him apart.”_

Lestrade went red. He let out a deep sigh and looked down. “Bastards.” He gritted his teeth. “But will he be alright?”

John wiped at his eyes with a clammy hand as he looked towards the closed doors leading towards the theatre. “I don't know,” John replied. “They haven't told me anything for hours.” He waved a hand, trying to be reassuring, more for his own benefit then Lestrade's, but failing miserably. “I looked him over myself before we got here, did what I could for him. He was in a bad way. He'd lost so much blood, so many injuries...” Another flash of anger hit him as he glanced at the Inspector again. “They left him to bleed to death. Slowly.” He hesitated before continuing. “If I hadn't discovered those injuries of his when I did, it would probably have been to late for him.” John turned his head away then, looking back down at the spilt coffee, not wanting Lestrade to see the tears now beginning to spill down his cheeks.

Lestrade was at a loss for words. He clasped hold of John's wrist then, trying to give the man some strength, but seconds later had to let go. He knew his pathetic attempts at kindness would not nearly be good enough. The man wanted answers. And probably revenge.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'm sorry this happened.”

John gave Lestrade a cold look. “Well, you did send him into that house, didn't you? He went there to do a favour for _you_ , Lestrade.” John was having problems keeping a lid on his temper again and his voice raised once more, showing his anger. “I'd say your sympathies are the least you owe him right now.”

Lestrade pursed his lips together. He didn't want to hear this. Mainly because, if he was honest, the exact same thoughts had been bothering him since Anderson had called him earlier that night to report the events to him.

_Was this all his fault? Had he actually sent Sherlock walking straight into a trap?_

_How could he, Lestrade, ever had suspected?_

“Sherlock wanted to see that crime scene,” the Inspector replied, grimly but firmly. “He thought he was close to understanding that psycho. He asked me to allow him access to that house, Watson. He’s taken enough risks in the past. Don't you try to blame me now something has finally happened to him.”

John sat bolt upright. He couldn't believe his ears. “So, it's all _Sherlock's fault_ he was raped?”

“I didn't say that!” Lestrade snapped.

“You didn't have to.”

Both men sat, facing away from the other, fuming. Lestrade took a deep breath, pushing his fury back down, away from the surface. This wasn't helping. Fighting with John Watson was not going to do Sherlock Holmes, or his own guilt, any good at all. It was Sherlock they needed to think about now. His recovery, and finding and locking up the bastard who did this to him. They had to work together, not be against one another. And, as Lestrade looked back over at John, it was clear that the same thought had struck the doctor too.

“Sorry,” John said, in a small voice. “I know it wasn't your fault. How were you supposed to know this would happen?” He turned and looked again towards the doors where his friend had been taken upon their arrival. “Sherlock put himself in harm’s way, it's the way he likes it. There's no way you could have changed what happened.” He gave the Inspector a tiny smile and looked away once more.

Lestrade, more relieved than he would ever let on to hear these words, was about to respond to John's apology with one of his own when Anderson noisily entered the waiting room, skidding to a halt in front of Lestrade.

“Here you go, Sir,” he offered earnestly, two cloths in his hand.

“You took your time,” Lestrade told him, grabbing a rag from him and quickly wiping at the coffee, which had now stained the floor.

“Sorry, Inspector.” Anderson replied but his questioning gaze was locked onto John Watson.

John, however, didn't notice.

“Good evening Doctor,” Anderson said, as pleasantly as he could manage.

John glanced up at him absently and nodded a greeting in return.

“How is he?” The police officer inquired at once.

John now looked at Anderson properly for the first time, and he was shocked by what he saw. The man's face was covered in bruises. His right eye was almost closed, the blackness was so severe. The man had clearly been subjected to a nasty beating. And John could only assume the man who hurt Anderson was the same beast responsible for reason why his friend had spent that night lying on a operating table. 

John swallowed hard. 

“He'll be fine,” he assured Anderson, though he still wasn't so sure himself. It would be pointless to worry the young man further. He had clearly been through enough of an ordeal himself that night.

He leaned forward. “So, Anderson, what's your story then?” The policeman looked up sharply and, seeing the concern in his large eyes, John felt even more sympathy for the other man. He added, more kindly; “What happened in that house tonight?” 

Anderson seemed to hesitate before speaking, apparently unsure of how to begin. John understood why – he had probably already told his story to Lestrade and the Doctors and it couldn’t be pleasant to relive the experience again and again. But John needed to hear this, he needed to work out in his mind what had happened, so he smiled at the police officer reassuringly. Anderson returned the smile with a grateful one of his own, steadied himself and began recounting his horrific story, just for Watson this time.

“The night was uneventful before Mr Holmes showed up. The boys and I, we'd got on and done the work, dealing with the forensics, collecting the evidence. It was all completed long before Mister Holmes arrived. So, after being certain I had learned all there was to learn from the poor woman's corpse, I gave the order to have the body taken to the morgue. I was trying to give the lady some respect. I also didn't see the point of the boys sticking around when there was nothing else to be done and we only needed two men on look out until the morning, so I sent the majority away. That left just me and Clarkey there for when Sherlock turned up.”

He paused, glancing towards his superior. Lestrade looked agitated and John could guess why. Anderson had taken it upon himself to clear up that crime scene before Sherlock had arrived, knowing how it would infuriate the detective and lead to a row. John could assume this would seem very unprofessional to Lestrade, not to mention going directly against his orders. John was sure the Inspector would have warned Anderson to expect Sherlock and the other man had ignored him. Not a great example being set to the rest of the men if this was the attitude of the man left in charge.

But after a moment, Lestrade's seemed to allow his anger to subside and he nodded for Anderson to continue.

Anderson looked again towards John.

“Sherlock wasn't impressed that I'd moved the body and cleaned up the scene. In fact, he was furious.”

“I bet;” muttered Lestrade. Anderson shot him a sideways glance before continuing on.

“Mr Holmes was causing a bit of a commotion so I sent him on his way,” Anderson stated. “He left and I didn't see him again. I thought he'd given up. I should have known better. Well, then, Clarkey got a call from his missus' mother to tell him that his wife had gone into labour. I felt there was no need for him to hang around and miss that, so I told him to go.” 

A second nervous look towards his D.I was met with another stern glare. Anderson swallowed but kept going. “I walked down the street with Clarkey, back to his car and waved him off. I went back to the house to return to my post but I heard a sound close by me. That's when I assumed Mister Holmes had ignored my wishes and had come back for another try.” 

He paled and John could see how difficult this was for him. 

“Please go on,” John urged. “You're doing great.”

Anderson smiled. He let out a small sigh. “I'm afraid I don't remember to much else after that, Doctor.” He muttered. “I recall walking towards the sound, calling for Mister Holmes and then, I was being punched in the face. Repeatedly. And I could hear a man's voice, shouting obscenities at me. All I knew was that it wasn't Mister Holmes.” He licked his dry lips and looked away. “Then I must have blacked out.”

“You were the lucky one, Anderson;” Lestrade told him.

“I know that, Sir.” Anderson replied, still looking down at his feet.

John, however, was confused.

“You weren't there though, when I got there.” He stated. “Where did you go?”

Anderson blinked twice. “It was dark Sir, there was no lighting from the lamp posts where he dumped me.” His eyes bored into John's. “I came to a small distance from the house and by the time I'd made my way back inside, the place was deserted.” He coughed. “I guess you’d been and gone by then, Doctor Watson.” He blinked again. “I had no idea that such a horrible attack on Mr. Holmes had even taken place. I'm sorry.”

John nodded. That did make sense.

“Not your fault,” he told Anderson, who gave him another appreciative smile. 

Lestrade cleared his throat, his way of demanding quiet. He got it. 

“My theory, if you want to know it, is that the psycho who brutalised and murdered that poor woman earlier in the evening had hung around to watch the results of his handy work. He probably got off on watching us investigating his crime.” Lestrade frowned, not enjoying the pictures his theorising brain was showing him. “And then when Sherlock Holmes turned up, that must have _really_ excited him.”

John had to look away. The thought sickened him. Anderson, though, was listening intently.

“The monster must have seen his chance when Sherlock slipped back in that house, then you must have surprised him by reappearing, Anderson, so he dealt with you. I think you’re lucky to be alive, son.” He glanced at his colleague. Anderson, swallowing, nodded. 

“He went back inside, went upstairs and found Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade continued. Another pause. “Sherlock was probably taken by complete surprise, didn't even see the bastard coming. The killer beat and raped him and then left him there, either believing him dead or expecting that he soon would be.” Lestrade grimaced. “However you look at this, we are dealing with a deranged monster here. He raped Sherlock in the same room he'd already mutilated that woman. Her blood was still on the sheets.” The Inspector glared. “Sick freak.”

John couldn't stand it. He got to his feet and began to pace around the room. He’d never been so disgusted in his life.

“This is _inhuman_!” He fumed, his fists clenched at his sides. He was muttering under his breath, unaware that the other two men could hear his furious words. “What kind of a coward would attack another human being in cold blood like this?” He paused, realising that he had mistakenly spoken out loud. He didn't like allowing his feelings to the surface like that and he turned away. He stood, head bowed, hands on his hips, lost in his own horrible thoughts.

Anderson suddenly jumped up. John looked at him, noticing immediately how pale the young man had suddenly become, and he was concerned that Anderson looked ready to pass out. Lestrade noted this too and, with a friendly jerk of his head, he sent the officer out for some air.

Expressing his thanks, Anderson hurried away. John watched him disappear, noticing how Anderson trembled as he walked.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I know outbursts aren't going to help. I shouldn't have upset him.”

Lestrade waved the apology away. “No problem. He'll be fine.”

As Anderson disappeared down the corridor leading to the exit, listening to Lestrade and John's exchange of words, he allowed his face to break into a small smile of relief. 

_Thank God. It's up to you, now, Sherlock. Don't let me down._

Glad to be out in the cold air, Anderson slammed the door thankfully behind him.

“Poor kid,” Lestrade noted, hearing the door slam. He gave a small shake of his head. “He blames himself.”

John nodded sadly. 

“He shouldn't do; ” he replied. “It wasn't his fault.”

Lestrade crossed his arms in front of him and leaned back against his chair. “He wants to go back to the house tonight, with a team. He's a brave lad, actually going back in there. He already collected Sherlock's rape kit from his Doctors. He asked me if he can help collect the forensics and do the tests himself. The lad is desperate to help, make up for his part in all of this. I couldn't say no.” He shrugged. “And besides, he's also the best forensics expert we've got. If there is something to find, he'll find it.” He whistled. “Don't tell him I said that though. Don't want him getting big headed.” 

John knew Lestrade was trying valiantly to lighten the mood but he couldn't bring himself to reciprocate.

“That's good,” he replied quietly. “Maybe we could actually find this evil sicko and bring him to justice.”

Lestrade nodded solemnly. “Sherlock was getting close.”

John closed his eyes tightly and wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to warm himself up. It was a losing battle as no amount of heating would stop the chill going through him. “Who did this?” He asked, his own hopelessness to his friend's plight causing him so much grief. Why was he so useless? Sherlock would know what to do if the roles were reversed. He would find the bastard and make him pay. John didn't know where to start. “Who would beat a cop half to death and then attack and rape an unarmed man?”

“The same man who’s done exact the same thing three times before,” Lestrade told him and John could only nod his agreement. It certainly seemed possible.

John suddenly froze. “Shit Lestrade, what if he comes back for Sherlock?

Lestrade looked up, alarmed. “What?”

John gestured angrily, now in a panic. “The others were strangled, weren't they? But Sherlock escaped with his life. I've seen this happen before. The killer won't be satisfied. He might come back to finish him off.”

“I won't give him that chance,” Lestrade promised. “He won't get anywhere near Sherlock again, I swear.”

John was not satisfied. “You'll protect him?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it means having to put a permanent guard on him to watch him _at all times_?”

“Oh yeah,” Lestrade retorted, rolling his eyes. “He’d just love that!”

“He'd get used to it,” John replied.

Lestrade smirked. “If I actually had a man at my station who could keep up with Sherlock, I'd be impressed...”

John chuckled at that, despite himself.

At that moment, finally, the door to the theatre swung open and a doctor walked towards them, still wearing his operating mask. 

“Are you family?” he asked, looking from one man to the other.

Lestrade stepped forward, “I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock works with me on and off. He turned to John. “And this is Doctor Watson and yes, he is his family.” He lowered his voice. “Or as good as, anyway.”

“I see,” the doctor nodded. “Well, Inspector, if you’re here to question my patient, I'd prefer you to wait until tomorrow at least. He's very weak.”

John quickly moved ahead of Lestrade. “Please Doctor, how is he?”

“Not too bad, considering the ordeal he's been through. We've stitched him up and he’s out of danger, I'm happy to say. He's awake, though very tired. He’s still slightly concussed, he definitely suffered more than one nasty blow to his head. He is also still in a lot of pain, though trying not to show it.”

John shook his head at that. Typical Sherlock. 

“He will hurt for a few more days to come yet, I'm afraid.” At this, the surgeon seemed to look John up and down. “May I ask you: are you the Doctor John Watson that came in the ambulance with him?”

John nodded and looked down at his feet. Did he do something wrong?

The surgeon placed a hand on John's shoulder. “I think you should know, your actions back at that house, your startling quick thinking and expertise in stopping the bleeding so efficiently…you may well have saved his life.”

“Don't,” John whispered. He was aghast. He didn't want to be treated like some kind of hero. He hadn't been fast enough, whining like an idiot about restaurants and cinemas and mobile phone text messages. He should have acted sooner. He should have _known_. “Please don't.” 

The Surgeon gave him a confused look but then moved on. Strange behavior from family members or close friends was nothing new to him. He jerked his head. “Well, Mr. Holmes asked to see you.”

John's head shot up at that. “He's asking to see me?” 

Lestrade gave him a small smile. “I'll wait here,” he offered, and sat back down. 

The doctor stepped aside. “You can go in for a few minutes. As I said though, be quick, he really does need his rest. He's in the recovery room, door at the end of the hall.” He pointed towards the now open and inviting doorway.

John was nervous but he didn't know why. Sherlock was asking for him, which alone was a big relief after his attitude earlier. Giving himself a small shake, John walked quickly through the open surgery doors. 

XXX

John shut the door quietly behind him, took a deep breath, and turned around. Sherlock was lying in a bed in the corner of the room, the only one currently occupied. He was on his side with his eyes closed, and John wondered if his friend had fallen asleep. Walking slowly towards Sherlock, he perched himself down on the chair beside him. He looked peaceful, care-free. John was glad. 

_That won't last,_ the doctor told himself. _Not once he wakes up._

John noticed that Sherlock's bed covers were not as high as they could be. Fearing his friend would get cold, he leaned forward and pulled them up to Sherlock's neck. The least he could do was make him comfortable.

When he moved back to his seat, he saw that Sherlock's eyes were now open and watching him.

John was startled for a moment but then he smiled. 

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hello John,” Sherlock replied. “Can you tell me why you went against my wishes?”

John's smiled faded. “I...eh...what?”

“I said, no hospitals.” Sherlock groaned.

John didn't know how to respond. “But I...you needed...”

Sherlock was giving him the tiniest traces of a smile. And John finally saw this.

“Don't do that,” he told him with some annoyance, but he still found himself chuckling. 

Maybe it was the relief that Sherlock was still Sherlock and that the bastard had only taken his body, he hadn't ruined _him_. John shouldn't had been surprised. He knew Sherlock was strong.

“So,” he said, leaning closer, “how are you feeling?”

“Bored,” came the sullen reply. “I've had to put up with the most irritating of nurses walking in and out of here this past hour, attempting to brighten my mood with the most inane, trivial chatter and mind numbingly dull conversation.” He was seized by a coughing fit then, the first true sign of how ill he still actually was. “See?” Sherlock added. “Even talking about them causes lapses in my health.”

John shook his head. “You need to rest. You nearly died.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “So they say.”

“You should take their advice.”

“You're right, I should.”

“Will you?”

“Maybe.”

John tutted. “Lestrade is outside.”

Sherlock opened one eye at that. “Yes, I will then. Time to sleep.”

“He wants to know what happened. So do I.”

“I don't remember,” Sherlock answered blankly.

The other man sighed. He had expected that response.

“Do you know,” he broke off, uncomfortable, “I mean, have they told you...”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes John, I know I was raped.” His voice was hoarse now, John knew his time was nearly up. Sherlock would be out again soon and John would have to wait some more.

He needed to finish up and quickly.

“Anderson told us what happened,” John began. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at John. John, quite unnerved by the wide-eyed look Sherlock gave him, glanced at the door behind him. He was worried, he didn't want Sherlock to have exhausted himself.

“John, go on,” Sherlock hissed.

“He was beaten and left battered, outside the house.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh.”

“He's alright though.” John added.

His friend closed his eyes. “I'm glad.”

John looked towards the door. How long would they give him? He knew how important this recuperation period was, he was worried that Sherlock may over-exert himself.

“I can still feel him, John,” Sherlock suddenly whispered. John had to move closer, so he could hear his strained words. “I tried to fight, I asked him not to, but he just laughed at me.”

John swallowed hard. “It's okay,” he replied. “You're okay, Sherlock.” And then, after a beat. “I'm here.” 

“He wouldn't stop,” Sherlock mouthed, his eyes tightly closed. John could only imagine the pictures he saw in his mind, reliving the nightmare. John didn't know what to do, what to say. 

“We'll find him, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock moaned. “I'm sorry,” he managed. “I'm sorry I let him do it to me.”

John was horrified. “You didn't let him! He forced you. He's a monster and Lestrade will find him. We _will_ find him.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It's over, John.” He gasped from the pain as he tried to sit up, much to John's horror. “Passed. Done with. Leave it alone.”

“Stop it!” John snapped, restraining Sherlock and trying, and failing to remain calm himself. “Listen to me, Sherlock! You can't let him get away with this!”

“He already has.” 

“No,” John snapped, shaking his head. “I won't accept that. You don't know what you're saying.”

Sherlock groaned at that. “I'm tired. It hurts, John.”

“I'm sorry.” John told him, still stunned by his friend's attitude towards his attacker. And the man's worsening condition was worrying him to. “I need to fetch your doctor.”

“John, wait.”

“Sherlock...”

“Please.”

John sighed. He leaned in closer. “Tell me quickly and then, I really want you to sleep, you hear me?”

Sherlock's words were so softly spoken, so pained, John only just made them out. He gasped when Sherlock reached out with the last of his strength, grabbed his shirt and pulled him even closer.

“Don't tell Mycroft.” He whimpered.

“What?”

“Don't tell my brother.”

“But...”

“He'll poke his nose in, force his way into my life, don't want him. Turn him away if he contacts you about me. Promise me, John.”

John didn't like it. He looked back towards the doors. Sherlock clung even more tightly to his arm.

“ _Promise me!_ ”

Sherlock was desperate.

What could he do?

Very begrudgingly, John replied, “Okay.”

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and then collapsed back down on his bed. His hand though, that stayed in John's. John went to pull away but Sherlock held on. John, feeling dangerously close to tears yet again and desperate to actually get a grip on himself, gaped at his hand as if he were surprised that Sherlock would show so much affection. He hadn't before. The circumstances were different now though, weren't they? Being a victim, being frightened, this was all new to Sherlock and John's heart went out to his friend. He smiled and squeezed Sherlock's hand gently.

Sherlock didn't say anything, he just lay there, his eyes closed, gripping John's hand. What was there to say? The message was loud and clear. 

“I really should go...” John began awkwardly, but he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Sherlock still remained silent. Instead, his eyes flickered open and he looked pleadingly up at John. He also tightened his grip. John could hardly bear to look at him.

The man needed time alone. All of John's experience told him that. But how could he leave him now? 

The doctor was completely thrown. Even after everything Sherlock had been though, John still found himself surprised by how needy his friend was in that moment. But Sherlock wanted him to remain there, close by, and that was good enough for John. He would stay with him, holding his hand, until Sherlock finally gave in to sleep. He knew Sherlock was scared and he wished he could take that fear away, or share it with Sherlock so he didn't have to go through this on his own. That was what John wanted Sherlock to know. He was not alone. John was there for him. As long as he needed him to be.

Still holding on to Sherlock's hand, John glanced again towards the door. His time must be up. That surgeon would be in there any moment. He’d better not upset Sherlock...

John looked back down at Sherlock. The man was already fast asleep. 

John smiled. Very carefully, he laid his friend's hand back on his lap, kissed Sherlock's forehead, and then slowly tiptoed out of the room. He had already made up his mind to sleep on that favourite plastic chair of his in the waiting room, so he would be back there tomorrow, when Sherlock woke up, the second he was wanted. It was the least he could do.

John glanced back at his friend as he reached the door. 

He was sleeping soundly.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting at least 2 chapters a day from now and will post chapter 5 later today...

It had been only an hour since Sherlock had been released from the hospital. He and John were, typically, being driven home in a taxi. Lestrade had told them this was a daft idea, that he would send for a car to take them, but Sherlock had insisted. A taxi would do fine. There was no need for everyone to make a fuss.

John had agreed, reluctantly, and Lestrade had shaken his head and muttered under his breath, but had given them the money required for the fare. Not that Sherlock had thanked him. John couldn’t be surprised by that, of course. He knew, very well, that Sherlock had never been the most appreciative of men and considering what he had been through, John was just relieved that the man hadn't withdrawn too far into himself for John to reach him. He was still Sherlock, brilliant, enigmatic Sherlock, and that was all that mattered.

Sherlock had his eyes closed, leaning against the door. He was still weak, unsurprisingly, but his health had improved a lot the last couple of days. He had even started to behave something like his old self. When he wanted to. John watched him, considering, for the thousandth time, how close he had actually come to losing him. The idea of that to John was unthinkable. But if had lost his friend like _that_ , no, John didn't want to ponder it. It was just too horrific.

John, instead, turned his mind back to the first conversation he had had with Sherlock in the hospital, and to the moment when Sherlock had pleaded with John not to have contact with Mycroft. This had bothered John so much that he had, gently, questioned Sherlock about this request the very next day, once that prissy surgeon had allowed him entry again. After all, John had reminded Sherlock, you know how much leeway your brother had, if he wants to get close to you and get involved, he will. You can't stop him.

Sherlock had been just as adamant. He had glared at John, telling him that he didn't want Mycroft involved, he wanted him to stay away. Sherlock had snapped at John that he was very much aware that his brother knew everything about him and that this attack would certainly be no exception. Sherlock had smiled grimly then as he had explained to John that his brother was apparently out of the country on “important, top-secret, business,” and Sherlock could only assume that that was why he wasn't there already, taking charge of the whole investigation, and demanding to see Sherlock. Because, Sherlock had surmised, he must know, he's my next of kin isn't he? They would have told him all about it by now.

Sherlock had shown very clearly how unimpressed he was by this fact. He had blurted out to the doctor, who had tried to convince him to contact his brother, that Mycroft simply wanted to control him, that he always had done and how Sherlock was in charge of his own destiny. He had then curtly instructed the doctor to “damned well” get out of his sight.

John, who had watched this whole discussion wearily, had attempted to talk the stubborn Sherlock around himself once the doctor had left them. He had dared to ask the still fuming Sherlock whether it was possible that Mycroft may actually be concerned for him. 

Sherlock hadn't replied. He had just softly chuckled.

And then, the next day, Sherlock had constantly spoken about being “watched.” John had been alarmed, wondering if he could mean his attacker was spying on him but Sherlock had given him a lingering look that could only have meant; “Open your eyes, John.” The look that he tended to save just for him and John had not forgotten his agitated response. 

_“It's Mycroft. His people are watching me. And you, and Lestrade. Even some of the doctors, the nurses, they are obviously working for him. We're all under surveillance, didn't you know that, John? So naïve.”_

This had exasperated John. Was Sherlock being paranoid? Sherlock, naturally, didn't tend to “do” paranoia but what about since the attack? There were subtle changes in his friend, what if heightened paranoia against Mycroft was one of them? And a nagging doubt would not leave John; still hadn't left him, the fact that Mycroft could help them find the man who had hurt his brother, and put a final stop to him. And, there was the small matter that he was Sherlock's _brother._ He had a right to know and John had, finally, informed Sherlock of his feelings on the matter. Sherlock's response had been completely expected, he had clammed up, turned away from John and have asked him to leave. At once.

John had regretted giving Sherlock his opinion but still stood by it. Sherlock should have told Mycroft directly. John still wished that he had, if only so that a difficult situation for the doctor could have been avoided. 

He had waited outside Sherlock's room that afternoon, allowing the detective time to stew and work through his issues. While waiting, a familiar, smartly dressed woman had approached him, asking for them to go somewhere to talk in private.

He had known who she was. How could he forget? He had seen her before, working for Mycroft. He hadn't needed to wonder how she had got into that room, a room that was usually only available to close family and friends. He had expected Mycroft to use his considerable influence to get close to Sherlock eventually, one way or another.

The woman had been very formal with John, inquiring into Sherlock's health and John had advised her, somewhat stiffly, that he was feeling better and would be fine. 

She had gone straight to the point then, informing John that Mr Holmes was concerned that his brother was purposefully blocking his efforts to contact him and that he required Doctor Watson's assistance in convincing Sherlock to speak with him.

The belittling tone of her voice had riled John. He remembered his unhelpful reply:

_“Well, perhaps it would help if Mycroft could come here himself, to see his own brother, instead of sending lackeys or setting up surveillance. Just an idea.”_

She had widened her eyes, not used to be refused, obviously; and had then given him her favourite smug, all knowing, smile and had informed him that a personal visit was not possible at that time.

He had crossed his arms and puffed out his chest at that. He had sharply told her that Mycroft could hardly complain about being frozen out then.

She had glared at him then, clearly angry, and had leaned closer, keeping her voice low. John could still recall every word she had then said to him. And they still sent a shiver down his spine.

_“If you could pass on a message for Sherlock, Doctor Watson, directly from Mr Holmes. He cannot avoid him forever. Not once Mr Holmes returns home from his business trip, due to happen any day now. It has come to Mr Holmes' attention that his brother is refusing to aid or indeed initiate any investigations to find his rapist, which concerns him a great deal. Should this continue, Mr Holmes will set up some investigating of his own. He will assist his brother if his brother will not help himself. Mr Holmes is quite determined to find his brother's attacker. And, he is very much afraid that any such investigation would likely end very badly for everyone involved. Tell Sherlock that he can expect to hear from his brother very soon.”_

And with that, she had taken her leave of him.

John had been unnerved and had mentioned this encounter to Sherlock as soon as he could, and he had been infuriated by his friend refusal to take Mycroft's message seriously.

 _“How original of Mycroft.”_ Sherlock had scoffed. _“Same as ever. Sending his little helpers to do his dirty work. Far to busy to come himself.”_

John had frowned at this and had replied softly that perhaps Mycroft really was out of the country and just wanted to offer Sherlock his help.

And Sherlock's grim response still worried him. 

_“He can't help.”_

And that had been very much _that._ The day was now Saturday, and Mycroft's staff member had made her visit two days previously. Since then, John had not heard a thing. No text messages from Mycroft, no sinister black Mercedes following him down the street. He wondered if Mycroft had actually given up?

John shook his head. Nope. This was Sherlock Holmes' brother. He seriously doubted the man was any less stubborn than his friend.

Sherlock had been in hospital for four days and three nights, in total. By the end of the third day, he had become a restless nightmare for everyone. Bored out of his brain, and being driven slowly insane by being either bedridden or stuck in that tiny room, Sherlock had decided to behave like a spoilt child. It was a huge relief to John, Lestrade and all the staff in that hospital when they had finally told him he could leave.

And now, here they were, in a taxi on a cold Saturday morning, heading back to Baker Street.

And all John could think about was Mycroft, and the exact reason why Sherlock was so against having his brother involved in solving this. He had been raped, John understood Sherlock's feelings, knew that he had been humiliated and degraded and was probably embarrassed to ask his brother for help, but if Mycroft could actually assist Lestrade in finding his rapist, a man who had also murdered three people and was probably planning to kill again, then John could not see the problem. Sherlock himself had been so close to finding this killer, before the killer had found him.

So, why wouldn't he allow Mycroft in, just this one time? Was a silly childish feud really more important then finding, and stopping, a dangerous rapist and brutal murderer?

It made no sense to John. But, he realised, as he took to gazing out of the window at the passing city, he shouldn't be surprised really. Sherlock often didn't make sense.

XXX

The taxi finally pulled up in Baker Street. John reached forward and gently tapped Sherlock's knee and he opened his eyes.

“I wasn't asleep John,” Sherlock told him. “Just resting my eyes.”

John smiled. “We're home.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know.”

John handed over Lestrade's money to the driver and, after some effort on Sherlock's part and gentle coaxing on John's, they were finally stood outside 221B Bakers Street, gazing up at the building they both were now very happy to call home. 

John unlocked the front door and then stood to one side. He gave Sherlock a wide grin. “After you.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “It's good to be back.”

John nodded. He knew how relieved Sherlock was, how good it felt to be back in familiar surroundings. He knew it was what his friend needed, to be away from that dire, miserable hospital. It was strange really, John considered, just how quickly a person could become sick of the very place that had been set up to make them well in the first place. John is sure Sherlock would appreciate the irony of that, in time. 

Just as they got upstairs, an excited face appeared on the landing.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson shrieked, causing both John and Sherlock to wince from the high pitched sound. “You're home!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Undoubtedly, Mrs Hudson.” He replied. He smiled gratefully at her. “It's nice to see you again.” 

Before anyone could stop her, she leaned forward and gave Sherlock a big hug and kiss. He grimaced in pain but, John was impressed to note, didn't cry out. Sherlock clearly didn't want to hurt the woman's feelings, and this came as a surprise to John.

John quickly noticed that Sherlock was eying him pleadingly. 

He jumped forward, tugging kindly on Mrs Hudson's arm. “Better let go of him, Mrs Hudson,” he told her. “Sherlock's been through a tough time, he'll still be quite achy.”

She held up her hands. “Of course, I do apologise. I do tend to get carried away and it's just such a relief to see him back here.” She clasped her hands together. “Sorry, Sherlock.”

He inclined his head towards her. “No problem, Mrs Hudson. It's very nice to see you too.”

She beamed then.

John and Sherlock crossed the landing towards their rooms and Mrs Hudson followed along behind them, chatting happily about what they had missed the last few days, that she had been worried that she'd hardly seen hide nor hair of John recently either and how she had prayed that Sherlock recovered. She ended her chattering by asking both men if they wanted anything to eat and drink. John, with a smile, declined her offer politely but Sherlock just shook his head, agitated. John frowned. It seemed his friend's patience had now expired. 

She snorted. “Really! After all that hospital food? You need something home cooked, Sherlock. Now, what can I rustle you up?”

John shook his head affectionately. He walked into the living room they shared and Sherlock was right behind him, but he stood in the doorway, barring Mrs Hudson's way. Not that he noticed.

“Don't worry, Mrs Hudson,” he told her, not very nicely, “I'm fine. Please don't fuss.”

“Just a sandwich then?” She tried again, not listening to him. “A nice slice of cake, maybe?”

He sighed. And slammed the door right in her face. He then turned to face John, his hands clasped behind his back, expressionless.

John, now sat in his usual chair, glared over at him.

“There was no need to be rude. She was trying to -”

Sherlock turned on him angrily then, moving across the room quickly and stopping right in front of the alarmed doctor.

“What, John? What were you going to say? Help, by chance?”

John was unimpressed.

“Actually, yes. And maybe you are right. Seeing what your attitude is, maybe people shouldn't bother trying anymore.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Everyone wants to be so helpful, don't they? Lestrade, Mycroft and now dear old Mrs Hudson.”

John groaned in annoyance. “And what's so _wrong_ with that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock quieted. He sat down opposite John, his eyes boring into him. 

“I don't want to be treated any differently, John. I just want to get back to normal.”

John raised an eyebrow. He couldn't help it.

Sherlock smirked. “Well, normal for me, anyway.” 

He gave John an odd look then, as if there was something he wanted to say but unsure how to go about it. Finally, and very uncomfortably, he asked; “She said she’d hardly seen you this week.”

John eyed him and then nodded. “I was at the hospital nearly all the time. I just came back here for clothes and money and to check up on the place.” John, uncomfortable, looked away. “I didn't want you left alone.” 

Sherlock stared at him. He clearly had no idea how to respond.

“Right,” he replied, uncertainly. “I see.”

John knew that was all he'd get in way of gratitude. And he wasn't offended.

Sherlock scanned the room quickly. It was exactly how he had left it five days ago, he realised, nothing had been moved since he had received _that_ telephone call from Lestrade. _No._ He deleted the grim thought at once. It was not useful, and definitely unwanted. He then saw his long coat flopped over the sofa and he picked it up and inspected it. He recalled how the coat had been ripped in the fight before... well, before it had happened. He hadn't expected it to be waiting for him to return, all mended.

He looked over at John again questioningly.

John glanced at the coat. “Mrs Hudson,” he informed Sherlock. “She fixed it for you. She wanted everything perfect for when you got back.” 

Sherlock coughed. He placed the coat carefully back down where he had found it, and then looked reluctantly towards the door leading to the landing. He seemed to ponder over some decision for a moment, unsure of what to do. Finally, he made his mind up.

“I'm going to get washed and cleaned up,” he whispered to John. “I need to feel like me again, John.”

John nodded in agreement. “That’ll do you good.” He replied, and then his eyes flickered down to the ground. “Be careful not to get your, eh, well, be careful of your stitches.”

Sherlock's discomfort was clear and John felt horrible. After a beat, he bowed his head, somewhat sarcastically, to John. “Yes, doctor.” He then walked into the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind him.

John let out a loud sigh. This was going to take a lot of time and patience. And, he knew for definite, Sherlock was not going to be an easy patient. John stood up slowly, walked to the door and opened it. He was careful to close the door softly' he didn't want Sherlock to know he had left him alone, although he was only through a door. Once outside, John called out quietly to Mrs Hudson. After a few seconds, she reappeared on the stairs.

“Did you call me, dear?” She asked him.

John nodded, moving closer to her. “Sorry about him, he didn't mean to be so rude;” He thought on this for a moment before adding; “Well, he probably did to be honest, but he's in a bad way and didn't mean to be so cruel and please don't be offended.” He smiled at her hopefully.

Mrs Hudson patted his arm. “I'm a tough old stick, doctor. I know he's had a bit of an ordeal and I'm not so daft as to be hurt by him lashing out at the nearest person.” She waved her hand. “That tends to be Sherlock's way, doesn't it?” 

John knew this was true. He was also pleased. He knew Sherlock really wouldn't want to upset Mrs Hudson. He was very fond of her really. 

John leaned closer to her then, keeping his voice low. “Is there anything I should know about, Mrs Hudson? Any problems here while we've been away?” 

She paused. “Nothing substantial, no explosions, or death threats, or anything like that.” She moved to a cabinet close by John and pulled the window open. “Though there is something you should know about. I know how Sherlock likes to read the newspapers. I've saved all of them I could get my hands on and they are on the table in your room.” She hesitated, holding one newspaper close to her chest. “But I thought I should hide this one from Sherlock and show you instead.”

She handed him the paper she was holding. He noticed it was yesterday's Metro.

“Page Twenty-three,” she said, regretfully. 

John flipped through the paper until he arrived at the correct page.

And he swore angrily under his breath.

_“Police discover man in murdered woman's home, attacked and left for dead.”_

John read the headline again. He was aghast. He gazed down at Mrs Hudson with dismay and she gave him a knowing look. John was furious. How did they find out? Who told them? Thank God they hadn't named Sherlock. All he could think was that they didn't actually know it was him. It would have been plastered all over the front page if they had. But how did they hear about the story at all? So few people knew. Who tipped them off? He quickly scanned the article. He shook his head in shock. It was all nonsense.

“For a start, we _don't_ know for sure that the killings and Sherlock's rape are linked!” He hissed in anger. Mrs Hudson glanced down at the floor, not knowing what to say. John read on. “And Sherlock wasn't resuscitated!” He stared down at the lies printed before him. He gasped and pointed out a line to Mrs Hudson. “Look at this!” He read aloud; “The man, who has links with top government officials, is no longer believed to be in life-threatening danger but the police are willing to pull out all the stops to protect the victim, likely to be an informer. _Informer!_ ” He wanted to rip the rag up. “Someone must have fed them this crap! And the line about the government! Where did that come from? This is not going to please Mycroft!”

Harassed, John rolled up the paper and quickly looked back towards his and Sherlocks' door. “We have to keep this away from Sherlock, Mrs Hudson. It's good that I saw it but we cannot show him this.”

“John, you there?” 

Sherlock was calling him. And he sounded worried. John swore again. He tossed the wretched newspaper back to Mrs Hudson. “Get rid of this,” he hissed to her. “Just throw it out.” She nodded once and then rushed back downstairs. Just as she was gone, Sherlock, now in his dressing gown, flung open the door, his face red with sudden panic.

John smiled at him, a bit too enthusiastically. Sherlock gazed back at him, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Where were you?” Sherlock asked him.

“What?” John replied at once.

Sherlock frowned.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Talking to?” John repeated. He gestured to the stairway. “Only Mrs Hudson. I apologised to her for the way you spoke to her.”

At that, Sherlock's cheeks went slightly pink.

“I see.” A beat. “So, there was no one at the door then?”

John blinked. “No.” Did Sherlock think someone was coming for him?John tried his beat to reassure him. “It was just Mrs Hudson. I promise.” 

Sherlock stared at John intently for some long moments. John didn't like it, he could swear that Sherlock could see right into him, into his very thoughts. Finally, Sherlock looked away.

“That's fine then.” He walked back into their room and, just as before, John followed him.

“You should get some rest,” John suggested. “You look tired.”

“I've had days of rest,” came the short reply.

“Some more wouldn't hurt,” John retorted.

Sherlock ignored that. He sat back down, his hands held out in front of him, finger tips touching. John knew he was thinking, knew not to disturb him. Sherlock then looked to one side, at the table beside him. He scooped up the remote control, which was placed on there and then used it to switch on the television.

He grimaced. There was some noisy presenter on channel 4, talking to loudly, as if she was addressing a simpleton. John knew he despised such shows and wasn't surprised when Sherlock quickly moved on to the next channel. Sherlock continued to channel hop for a few couple of minutes until he finally had to accept that there was nothing for him to watch. Muttering under his breath, he turned the television off again and threw the remote to one side.

“Waste of time,” he whinged.

“You know there's never anything on to interest you,” John told him.

“I'm always optimistic,” Sherlock replied.

John snorted.

Sherlock rose again and walked over to a small pile of post, laying in one corner of the room. John kept an eye on Sherlock as he leaned down to retrieve the post, grimacing for the pain. The doctor knew it was pointless to try and get Sherlock to do nothing, his friend was incapable of that. He was still concerned that Sherlock would exhaust himself. He hoped Sherlock would ease his worries and take himself off to bed. If only John could convince him there was nothing there to worry him. 

Of course, there was plenty to worry Sherlock, once he started dreaming.

And that was why he wouldn't agree to rest without a fight. John knew that only to well. They'd had enough drama whilst Sherlock had been in hospital, for that very reason. And there was nothing John could do.

Sherlock was leafing through his post.

“Junk, junk, bill.” He threw that particular envelope to John, who caught it, with a disapproving tut. Sherlock kept going. “Junk, get well card, bank statement.” He tossed the envelopes to one side. “Nothing here.”

Next, he moved to his laptop. John kept his beady eye on Sherlock as his friend waited for the computer to load up and then he logged on to his own website. John knew his friend wanted to check his emails. He had been out of action for five days. That may as well have been a lifetime to Sherlock. Being out of the loop for a period of time was not something his friend could cope with. 

“Anything?” John enquired casually.

Sherlock didn't reply.

“Sherlock?” John urged, “Any new cases. What about the killer? Anything on him?”

Still no response.

A feeling of dread quickly grabbed John and held him tightly. He stood carefully and moved to stand behind Sherlock.

“What’s the matter?” he breathed.

Sherlock quickly covered up the screen with his hand.

“Where are the newspapers?” he whispered.

John went cold. “Sorry?”

“Mrs Hudson always keeps the newspapers for me. Where are they?”

“Sherlock, I—”

Sherlock turned and looked up at John with large, accusing eyes.

“Especially yesterday's Metro. I need to see it, John.”

John suddenly felt very small. He should have known he couldn't hide anything from Sherlock.

“Why?” 

Sherlock moved his hand away, allowing John to read the email. As he did so, his anger and horror grew with every single disgusting word:

_Dear Mr Holmes,_  
I see we made the Metro. How was it for you? I'd love to know, when you sleep at night, do you dream about me? Can you remember how I felt with my dick up your arse? Does it still sting?  
I can't wait for another turn!  
With much love,  
A loyal fan. 

John felt sick. How could anyone send something so revolting and cruel?

Unless...

“Did he send it?” John managed.

“Who?” came the pained reply.

John stared at Sherlock.

“The killer!” he snapped. “The bastard who _raped_ you!”

Sherlock flinched. He didn't reply.

He sat there, staring at the screen, as the seconds passed, without making any other movements. John knew better then to push for an answer.

Finally, Sherlock leaped up.

“Mrs Hudson!” He bellowed.

John was horrified. Sherlock was still too weak, too much in pain to move as fast as he now was. He had to get him to calm down. He had to get him to stop.

Sherlock was out on the landing, still yelling for Mrs Hudson.

Finally, she rushed up the stairs.

“What is it?” She gasped.

“Show me yesterday's Metro.”

She was thrown. She looked past Sherlock, at John for support. Sherlock, scared and embarrassed, was not in the mood for games. He grabbed her, none too gently, and beeseched her.

“Please, Mrs Hudson. I need to see the Metro.”

Mrs Hudson was on the verge of tears. Not because Sherlock was hurting her, though his grip was tough, but because she knew the paper would damage him even more. But he was desperate and he had pleaded with her. She couldn't refuse him.

“Outside,” she said, very softly. “In the bin.”

He nodded, released her and stumbled his way down the steps, clinging hold of the banister for support. He had to see that newspaper. He had to know what they had said, how they had described him, his injuries, the attack. He had to know.

John was right behind him as Sherlock reached for the door handle.

“Wait!” John cried. He was beside himself. “Please don't, Sherlock. He's watching you. It's not safe.”

Sherlock hesitated for only a second.

“ _I have to know,_ ” he repeated.

With that, he pulled open the door.

And gasped in surprise. And then recoiled, retreating back into the house, away from the doorway.

John could only stare, as he tried to bring his breathing back under control, in shock.

Mycroft was standing just beyond the front door, a copy of the Metro in his grasp.

The elder Holmes brother's gaze moved from Sherlock to John and then back again. The usual smug smile faded slightly as he took in his brother's appearance.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock didn't speak, but stood perfectly still, hand clinging to the bottom of the banister for dear life. He stared wide eyed at his brother, apparently indecisive as to whether to slam the door in his face, or turn and make his escape back upstairs.

John didn't know what to say or do. The last person he had expected to see in their doorway when Sherlock had opened it was Mycroft Holmes. He didn't know why he was so surprised, the man had been quite desperate to contact his brother and his staff had threatened that a visit from him would be imminent. But now that he was there, and Sherlock was gazing at him with such dismay, John wondered if it would have been preferable for them all if Mycroft had kept his distance.

Too late to worry about that now.

Mycroft, a hand raised in greeting and smiling politely, recovered first.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he enquired, his well-spoken voice soft and pleasant. “It's quite chilly out here.”

At the sound of that voice, Sherlock seemed to give himself a kick into action.

“No,” he retorted at once, irritation clear in his tone. “Go away.”

He moved forward quickly, and tried to push the door shut, but Mycroft swiftly slipped his foot into the gap to keep it ajar.

“Let me in, Sherlock,” he said quietly.

Sherlock's face reddened. “I thought you were abroad,” he shot back. “I thought you were over seeing the latest summit in Brussels.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “That meeting was top secret,” he muttered, searching Sherlock's face. “Only four men knew of its existence.“

“Five,” Sherlock corrected him curtly. 

Mycroft seemed impressed, and perhaps slightly relieved.

“You never fail to surprise me, Sherlock,” his brother complimented him. “Now, perhaps if we could talk inside?”

Sherlock's face was set. “I don't think so.”

Mycroft's hand tightened on the Metro he had now raised and pointed at his brother. 

“Sherlock,” he said, firmly. “I know you've had a difficult time -”.

“Difficult?” Sherlock interjected. He chuckled coldly, before repeating the word again, under his breath. “Difficult.”

Mycroft ignored this interruption. 

“I've been in the background, Sherlock, waiting for you to take control of the situation. I've been very patient with you. Too patient, I fear.” He glanced up the street. “If you would prefer us to continue to discuss this very private and delicate matter out in the street, in full view of your neighbours, then I am happy to remain outside. I do think, however, that it would be more sensible in the circumstances for us to converse inside. What do you think?”

Sherlock looked just about ready to explode. He didn't want his brother anywhere near his home, or indeed himself, that was obvious. But he knew Mycroft would not just leave without having his say. So, Sherlock weighed up the lesser of the two evils.

“Come in,” he finally snapped frostily, standing to one side to allow his brother entry. “But I can only spare you five minutes. I'm a busy man.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a condescending look as he entered.

“I will have as much time as it takes,” he informed his agitated brother.

Sherlock clenched his fists together, silent.

Either not noticing or dismissing his brother's displeasure, Mycroft strode up the stairs, pausing very briefly to shake John's hand before turning to Mrs Hudson with a winning smile.

“Mrs Hudson!” he said. “How very charming to see you again. You look wonderful, I must say.”

The woman was enchanted.

“Oh, Mr Holmes.” She giggled and went pink when he leaned forward to gave her a polite peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much, I have been taking good care of myself lately. You know, watching those calories...”

He smiled fondly. “Quite so, Mrs Hudson. I must admit, I've currently endeavoring to try out a diet of my own. I'm hoping the results will begin to show very soon.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Sherlock threw in, dryly.

Mycroft shot him an unimpressed look. John, meanwhile, tried very hard to keep his face straight. The main reason for that, apart from him being amused by Mycroft's expression, was because it felt so unbelievably good to hear Sherlock, though only for one moment, being back to his old sarcastic self. John had missed that sarcasm.

He'd never expected _that._

Noticing the Holmes brothers were now glaring daggers at one another and Mrs Hudson was standing between them, noticeably uncomfortable, John cleared his throat.

“Shall we go in?” he suggested, hoping to break the tense mood. He gestured to the open door leading to the living room he and Sherlock shared. Mycroft nodded and indicated for Sherlock to go forward ahead of him. For once, his brother did as he was told with no arguments. John followed Sherlock and Mycroft was right behind them, closing the door after him, not before giving Mrs Hudson one more big, beaming smile, which she was very happy to return.

As soon as the door was closed, Mycroft turned and faced Sherlock, his expression stern and his hands, still gripping the newspaper, clasped behind his back. It seemed he was ready to get down in business and, judging by his sudden change in stance, wanted to take charge. And John knew with just one glance to Sherlock that this would instantly put the younger brother even more on the defensive.

He was right.

“So, what do you want?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft didn't reply.

John sighed. _This is not going to go well._ He moved to stand beside Sherlock, wanting him to know that he was there for him if he was needed and, judging by his friend's grateful glance to him, his support had been noted. 

It took John a moment longer to realize that Mycroft's hard stare had transferred from Sherlock to himself. He looked back, somewhat nervously. 

“Perhaps you could put the kettle on for us, John?” Mycroft asked suddenly, very politely but firmly. The question was obviously not rhetorical. “I know I'm dying for a nice cup of tea. I'm sure Sherlock could use one too.”

John understood. Mycroft wanted some time to talk to Sherlock alone and John was happy to oblige him. He hadn't given up hope yet that perhaps Mycroft would be able to make headway with his brother and convince him to find, and punish, his rapist.

Sherlock, however, was having none of it.

“We don't need tea, coffee, hot chocolate or any other beverage, thank you, John.” He didn't look at the doctor, his eyes were locked on his brother's. “Mycroft won't be staying long.”

John rolled his eyes. “This isn't helping.”

The detective glanced over. “Thank you. Maybe you could tell him to go then. He won't listen to me.”

John frowned at his friend. “I didn't mean him.”

Sherlock was taken aback by that cutting comment. John could sense his friend's disappointment that John had not backed him up. But what could he do? He wanted to help Sherlock and he actually felt that he and Mycroft were on the same side. He realized, though, that meant that they were both against Sherlock, at least in Sherlock’s mind. 

The detective didn't speak for some moments, turning to stare out of the window. When he did finally speak, his tone was cold. 

“You're taking his side now, are you John?”

John knew it was coming. “It's not about taking sides,” he told his friend, as gently as he could.

“We are all on the same side here,” Mycroft joined in. “Sherlock, your attitude does you no credit.” He strode across the room to stand a few feet away from his brother. “Enough of this bickering.”

Sherlock's eyes flashed. “Are you ordering me?”

“If I have to.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Well, you may have to.” He looked back towards the window. “I have nothing to say to you, Mycroft.”

His brother tutted in frustration. 

He took hold of the newspaper he was still holding and began to flick through it. Finally, he arrived at the page he was looking for. He read aloud, his voice devoid of emotion. _"Man discovered in murdered woman's home, attacked and left for dead."_ He paused, his eyes flicking over to Sherlock for his reaction. There was none. Mycroft shrugged, reading on calmly; _“Police were investigating last night after a man was assaulted by the South Bank Butcher, who is alleged to have raped and murdered three previous victims...”_

“Stop it,” Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft acted as if he hadn't heard him. He continued on, regardless. _“The man, a well known informer to police, was brutally attacked and raped by the ripper, in what is being treated as a pre-meditated attack...”_

“I said, _stop it!_ ” Sherlock yelled, grabbing the newspaper from his brother and throwing it furiously to one side. “I've heard enough!”

“It's okay, Sherlock,” John began, with a disapproving glare at Mycroft. He didn't like him upsetting Sherlock, though he could see he’d succeeded in at least gaining a reaction from his brother. It was a start. “Don't worry about it.”

“It's not alright, John,” the detective snapped in response.

Mycroft watched his brother closely. “Why isn't it alright, Sherlock?”

 _“Because they got everything wrong!”_ He shouted in anguish.

John was startled. He hadn't expected his friend to blow up. He gazed at Sherlock intently, wondering if Mycroft actually had, very cleverly, managed to make a break through.

“Tell me what really happened,” Mycroft asked. _“Tell me.”_

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I'm sure you've read Lestrade's notes by now.”

Mycroft didn't miss a beat.

“I want to hear the story again,” he replied at once. “This time from you.”

Sherlock, biting his lip, turned and looked directly at Mycroft. His gaze then fell on John, who was now sitting down on the sofa, keeping out of it, watching their exchange closely. John suddenly could see how tired Sherlock was, and how defeated. Because to give in to Mycroft did indicate failure for him, despite the fact that Mycroft was trying, so desperately, to get through to his brother, for his own good.

_If only Sherlock could see past his own stubbornness to realise that._

“I don't remember what happened,” Sherlock whispered, unconvincingly. “I didn't see him.”

Mycroft seemed to consider this. Then, he nodded. “Very well then. Tell me what you _do_ remember.”

Sherlock returned to staring out of the window. John could see that this friend didn't want to make eye contact with his brother and he wasn't surprised. Describing the attack was still incredibly hard for Sherlock, especially to Mycroft, who knew him too well for anything to be kept hidden.

John's heart went out to his poor, damaged friend.

Sherlock cleared his throat. As he recounted his “story” not once did he meet Mycroft's intense gaze.

“I was in that room, where the killing had taken place. I was looking at the evidence, seeing, deducing. I didn't hear anyone enter the room behind me, and I was engrossed in what was before me. You know me. I was hit from behind, I went down. Thanks to the blow to my head I couldn't defend myself.”

Sherlock broke off. He saw that hated face looming over him, heard the laughter and cruel, snarled words, and he could feel, as clear as if it was still happening, the agony of being penetrated against his will.

_“Tell me what it feels like to have me fucking you right now, freak!”_

Sherlock groaned. His hands moved subconsciously to cover his ears. 

_No. Please. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to hear those words. Stop!_

He stumbled. John was up and over to him in seconds, supporting his arm, holding him steady.

“I'm alright,” Sherlock urged to the worried John. “I'm fine.”

“You're not fine, Sherlock.” Mycroft told him, quietly and somewhat sadly. “You are a long way from being fine. You are also lying to me.”

John looked up sharply at that.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “You can see the state that he's in. How can you doubt -”.

“John.” Mycroft said grimly, raising a hand, stopping the doctor's rant. “I don't deny the attack happened for a second. I not only believe it happened but I am also disturbed to think that the actual assault was worse and far more devastating than Sherlock is allowing any of us to realise. I wonder why?”

Sherlock was glaring at him now, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“Am I right, Sherlock?”

“Leave me alone.” Sherlock hissed, rubbing a hand up and down his face wearily.

_Hiding the shame._

Mycroft leaned closer then, until he was nearly nose to nose with his brother. “I know this is hard, Sherlock, and I know this hurts. You are scared and you are embarrassed. You don't want to have to admit to yourself that this has really happened. But you are going to _have_ to.” He placed an uncertain hand on his brother's arm. “You have to let us bring the one who did this to you to justice. If you let him go, you will regret it for the rest of your life. And that pain and guilt would consume you. And then, he'll have won.”

Sherlock didn't move through this speech. When Mycroft finished, Sherlock did something John was not expecting. 

He nodded.

John held his breath. _Had they got through to him?_

Sherlock moved closer. 

“Mycroft,” he whispered. “What the fuck do _you_ know about it?”

Mycroft stared at him, his eyes narrowing

Sherlock angrily pulled his arm away from his brother's grip and then turned his back on him. He didn't want his brother anywhere near him. He had dismissed him.

For a second, John wondered if Mycroft was going to grab Sherlock. He certainly looked angry enough. But then, it passed and Mycroft only looked tired and dejected. 

With a loud sigh of resignation, the elder Holmes turned to John. “Call me if you need my help, John.” He smiled politely. “At any time.”

John nodded. What else could he do?

Mycroft to one last time to Sherlock. “You will have to face this one day, Sherlock.” He leaned closer. “Oh, and you might want to delete that email.”

Sherlock's eyes snapped up and he flinched.

“What email?” He said, not very convincingly.

“You and I both know it isn't to difficult to hack into a website.”

“It is mine,” Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft shrugged. “I managed it. So may others. Just a friendly word of warning.” 

“Very good of you,” Sherlock said, through gritted teeth. He waved a hand dismissively at his brother. “Either show yourself out or perhaps John will oblige you.” He walked towards his bedroom. “I need to get dressed.”

He slammed the door shut behind him. There was no hint of a goodbye.

Mycroft stood there, even he apparently taken aback by his brother's rudeness. He recovered quickly.

With a thankful nod to John, Mycroft moved to the door leading to the landing, and he opened it and stepped through. John followed him down the stairs.

“I'm sorry,” John said quietly.

Mycroft turned and looked at him. He seemed surprised.

“Sorry?” He echoed. “Why?”

“I think you came here with the best intentions,” John told him wearily. “He'll realise it.”

“I hope you're right.”

John blinked. “He'll come out of this. He'll want to find the bastard.”

Mycroft eyed him.

“Will he?”

“Yes,” John said, somewhat defensively. “The man is a murderer. He's killed three people before he attacked Sherlock. We have to find this man, Mycroft. And Sherlock, he just needs some time. He'll come to his senses.”

Mycroft sighed. He leaned closer to John. 

“Dr. Watson, open your eyes.” He placed a hand on John's shoulder. “You need to learn to see what is right in front of you. Think about that email too. Ask yourself this: what is Sherlock so afraid of?”

John was perplexed. “The rapist. The killer. The man who—”

“The killer?” Mycroft repeated dubiously. “A man who Sherlock had studied so and investigated so thoroughly he nearly had him caught? This is the man who surprised and over powered my brother and raped him?” He frowned. “And then changed his mind about strangling him and let him go? Is that what you really think, John?”

John was speechless. He didn't know what to say. “Then who?”

Mycroft shrugged.

“ _You_ are the one who has to pull Sherlock out of this slump, you have to bring him round. When you do, call me.” He stepped away, his hand on the door knob.

“But I should warn you, John,” he continued, his voice low and cold. His tone actually caused a shiver to run through John's spine. “I will not allow this animal who pinned down my little brother and raped him to walk away from this. I don't know who it was yet, but I do know that this is not as simple as you, or Inspector Lestrade, like to believe. If I do put matters into my own hands, you may not like my methods. Wake him up, John. Or I will. Before it goes that far.” 

He smiled and held out his hand. 

John, still, in a daze from his words, shook it.

“Good day to you, Dr. Watson.”

And with that, Mycroft was gone.

Still considering Mycroft's words, Watson climbed slowly back up the stairs.

What if he had a point? The more Watson thought, the more things just didn't add up.

How had the killer surprised Sherlock so completely that his friend had had no opportunity to fight back? And, seeing how well Sherlock knew the man just before the attack, why wasn't the detective hunting him right now? Why would he be so against pursuing a killer he had come so close to stopping? 

John pushed open their front door, and was startled to find Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, fully dressed but clearly still agitated, and watching him intently.

“He's gone?” Sherlock barked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

John sighed. Still perturbed, he sat back down on the sofa, gazing into space.

“What's wrong?” Sherlock snapped.

John waved his hand. “Nothing.”

“What is it?”

John couldn't hand back any longer. As conversationally as he could manage, he asked, “How did he...” but he broke off, looking down at the ground.

He didn't notice how pale Sherlock had turned as he stepped closer. “What?”

John rubbed his hands together. “How did the man sneak up on you? You knew that killer, you told me you almost had him beaten...”

His words trailed off and he glanced up at Sherlock, who was watching him with evident annoyance.

“Obviously, I was wrong...” he responded, haughtily.

John wasn't satisfied. “But—”

“I'm tired, John.” Sherlock interrupted. “I've had enough questioning from my damned brother, I don't need you to turn on me now.”

John sighed. “I'm not turning on you, Sherlock. I care about you. I want to help you.”

Sherlock lowered his voice. “If you care about me,” he almost pleaded, “then drop it.”

John opened his mouth to argue his point further when the door bell rang, making them both jump.

Sherlock swore loudly.

“Why won't he leave me alone?!”

Gritting his teeth from the pain, Sherlock stormed down the stairs. He was exhausted by the time he arrived at the bottom, and he reached out to pull open the door, ready to tell his brother exactly what he thought of him and his continuous interference.

“You listen to me, you arrogant...”

He stopped dead.

Lestrade was standing on the threshold, flanked by a smirking Sally Donovan, and to Sherlock's complete horror and shock, his gaze met that of a very flustered looking Anderson, who was hanging back, a few feet behind his colleagues.

Lestrade took a wary step forward. He was completely thrown by Sherlock's unexpected attack as he had opened the door, but also by the panic he now saw in the other man's eyes as his gaze swept over the three newcomers.

“We're sorry to disturb you, Sherlock.” He paused, before adding; “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock was still staring at Anderson. He was frozen to the spot, unable to look away. This had caught him completely unawares. He had been prepared to confront Mycroft, he had certainly not be expecting to come face to face with his rapist. Sherlock's chest was tightening, his pulse was racing and a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him for a few seconds. Anderson gazed back, his face unreadable. After a small battle of wills, it was Anderson who had to look away first.

Sherlock, taking heart from this very minor victory, took a deep breath and gathered himself before finally turning his attention to Lestrade. 

“What’s happened?”

Lestrade hesitated. 

“I know you've only just got out of hospital, I wish we didn't have to—”.

“What is it, Lestrade?” Sherlock snapped impatiently.

Lestrade knew Sherlock was not in the mood to waste any more of his time. Best to get straight to the point, then.

“There's been another murder.”

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Watson could not believe it. Sherlock had only been out of the hospital for just over an hour and now, here they were, sitting in a taxi yet again, and on their way to another crime scene. Watson didn't like it, and he had made his feelings clear to Lestrade and Sherlock.

“Sherlock needs rest,” he had complained. “You shouldn't be telling him about this.”

Lestrade had looked away. It seemed he had agreed with the doctor but had no other alternative. He needed Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, had insisted that they go.

_“It's what I need, John.”_

That was the only comment he had offered on the matter, and had made it very clear that the subject was closed. What could John do? Stay behind? No chance. So, he had no other choice but to go along with it. As usual. 

Once more, Sherlock had refused to ride in a police car and, this time, Lestrade had not been so generous. So, again, John was funding their trip. And he wasn't impressed.

“This is costing me a fortune, Sherlock;” John complained, “Why can't we take the tube once in a while?” He then cursed loudly when their reckless driver sent them flying over a bump in the road.

“Can you be more careful please?” He snapped to the man in front. “My friend's not been well.”

The driver eyed him in the rear view mirror. “Sorry guv,” he replied, though he didn't sound very sympathetic at all. John had glared in response but decided it would be best to remain silent.

Sherlock, gazing out of the window throughout this exchange, now glanced across at the irritated doctor.

“Better watch out, you know.” He stated quietly, with a hint of a smile. “You never know what you’re going to get with taxi drivers, do you?” 

John couldn't help it. He smiled back.

“How much further?” He asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Not far. This one was found near Waterloo. We're about ten minutes away.”

John frowned. “Not far from the South Bank, then?”

 _“The Butcher strikes again,”_ Sherlock mused, softly. He reverted his eyes to once more gaze out of the window. “I can imagine the Metro's unimaginative headline now.”

“And Lestrade wants you to have a look at the body?”

“Of course,” came the dry reply. “This killer has him bamboozled.” Another small smile. “Not that confusing the poor Inspector is too much of a difficulty.”

John had been wanting to ask Sherlock a question since his friend had called up him that they were going out and for John to bring his coat. The doctor had been surprised to see the police at the door, and he had soon become annoyed when Sherlock had explained that Lestrade had again asked for his help. The doctor had protested that the detective was simply not yet up to such a request but Sherlock had shouted him down, asking Lestrade for the address and telling the D.I. to go on ahead. Lestrade had then instructed Anderson to fetch a car and to ride with Sherlock and John, and as quick as a flash, Sherlock had rebuffed that suggestion, informing Lestrade that he and John would take a taxi and meet them there. Lestrade had shrugged at this and then he, Donovan and Anderson had left them to hail their cab.

John had not been surprised by Sherlock's reluctance to travel with Anderson. The man was clearly a sore reminder for Sherlock of what had happened inside the house. And Anderson had certainly not had any arguments. John had noticed, with some more pity, that the man had turned deathly pale when Lestrade had ordered him to go with Sherlock and John.

 _“Poor guy,”_ John had mentioned to Sherlock. “ _He's finding this really hard.”_

 _“Is he?”_ Sherlock had replied, his tone devoid of emotion. He had then moved ahead of John, signaling for an available taxi to stop. 

John had sighed at this response. If only Sherlock would get past the tension he seemed to feel every time he was around Anderson, deal with how they had fought each other before the attack, and what occurred subsequently. John was then sure that this would be a good step forward in Sherlock's acceptance of what happened to him.

_He had to give him time. He'd get there. He had to._

Eventually, they pulled up outside of the house, bringing John out of his musing. John stared up at the three bed roomed semi before him and he shivered. The house looked eerily like the last one. He chanced a quick glance at Sherlock and he saw that his friend had paled at the sight of the house. He then, unexpectedly, covered his discomfort and gave John a quick jerk of his head.

They both exited the car and, to John's annoyance, Sergeant Donovan moved forward to meet them. She was still smirking. He could sense Sherlock tensing up beside him and John gritted his teeth. If she upset Sherlock again, he would give her a piece of his mind. His friend didn't need her bitchiness right then.

Anderson hovered behind Donovan, apparently suddenly fascinated by the blue overall he held in his hand.

Sherlock, striding forward, ignored them both. He walked past them without faltering, John walking at his side, giving him a quick unsure glance.

“Hey, freak!” Donovan called after him. When Sherlock still didn't bother to acknowledge her; she jogged after them and pulled angrily on his arm. “Wait a moment, freak!”

Sherlock spun around, pulling his arm out of her grip and then hissing, right in her face: _“Don't touch me.”_

Sally paused, and then she held up her hands, stepping back. “Okay, okay.” She gestured toward the house. “The Inspector just wanted me to warn you before you go in there.”

Sherlock frowned. This was wasting time. “Oh yes?” He snapped, unconcerned. “Warn me why?”

She glared at his tone. She then seemed to consider him before she replied, with a smug smile; “You'll see.” She pointed forward. “Go on, then. The _actual_ police, the people who, you know, actually _belong_ in there are upstairs, waiting for you and the doctor.” Her voice dripped with false politeness. “First door on the left.”

Sherlock was eying her with pure dislike.

“If the _actual_ police are inside,” he replied, mocking her; “then I assume that would suggest that the _fake_ ones are out here.” He looked from Sally to Anderson. “Interesting.”

He marched past her then, not bothering to give her or Anderson another look. John couldn't help but smirk as they walked by.

Sally narrowed her eyes as she stared hatefully after them.

XXX

John and Sherlock walked into the building, Sherlock holding the door open for his smaller companion.

John grinned at him. “Nicely done,” he congratulated.

Sherlock shrugged. “Wasn't one of my best insults.”

“Good enough,” John replied quickly.

Sherlock nodded, allowing himself a little smile. “Have to admit, it felt pretty sweet.”

They continued on upstairs. John, noticing again the uncanny similarities with that place on the Embankment, was growing more uncertain with every step. 

_This was not right._

They followed Sally's directions, entering the first door they came to and finding themselves in a large bedroom.

Sherlock froze. John didn't need to ask him why. Despite the room not being familiar to the doctor, he understood why Sherlock was staring, dumbly, at the body strategically placed in front of them. Lestrade stood in the middle of the room, watching his consulting detective nervously. 

“I'm sorry, Sherlock,” he offered softly.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“He wanted my attention,” he whispered.

John wanted to scream. He wanted to kill someone, anyone, for this latest poisonous attack on his friend. He assumed that this latest murder scene had been set up exactly like the one in the previous house. There was blood on sheets, lots of it. All the furniture in the room was upturned or knocked over. The bloodied and beaten body of a man was kneeling forward on the ground, his head leaning against a marble fireplace, His eyes were open, staring. John flinched when he looked at them.

And, he felt sick.

This was too much. _Who would be disturbed enough to set this up like this?_

“I guess Mycroft was wrong,” Watson whispered.

“What?” Sherlock asked him.

“Only your rapist could set up the room to look like this. It must have been the Butcher after all.”

Sherlock blinked. “Must have been,” he echoed.

Sherlock turned quickly to Lestrade.

“What was the man's name?” he enquired.

Lestrade hesitated before answering him. 

“Seamus Haughton,” he said, quietly. He couldn't look at Sherlock. “He was beaten, raped and strangled;” He paused, before finishing, “just like the others.”

Holmes nodded. He seemed to push his own feelings aside. Time to get on with the investigation. To think about something other than pain, humiliation and hate. At last.

“There is one obvious difference though.” He said, crouching down beside the corpse. “The others were murdered in their houses. Seamus here was killed before.” He continued to peer at the poor man's body. “Killed and then brought here.”

Lestrade frowned. “But how -?”

Sherlock gave the Inspector a withering look. “It's obvious.”

John and Lestrade exchanged glances. “Obvious,” they repeated, in unison.

Sherlock shook his head, frustrated by their inability to keep up. 

“Mr Haughton has been battered and raped. You would expect to see a lot of blood, wouldn't you?”

Lestrade frowned. He gestured theatrically toward the blood covered sheets.

Sherlock sighed. “That's far too much blood, Inspector.”

“Too much -”.

“Oh yes. I think you will find that the blood on that bed does not belong to Mr Haughton. I can only deduce therefore that the poor man was killed elsewhere.” A beat. “And then, the killer staged this little performance and added the body afterwards.” He glanced up. “The finishing touch, you might say.” 

“Then whose blood?” Lestrade threw in, but Sherlock only shrugged.

“Maybe we'll discover that once you've carried out your tests,” Sherlock replied, dismissively. 

He went into overdrive then, inspecting the body, his quick mind noticing and noting every little thing. The position of the body, the clothes, the ring on the dead man's finger.

“He hasn't been moved?” Sherlock checked.

“Of course not,” Lestrade retorted. “Do you think we're amateurs?”

“I'd better not answer that.”

John snorted. Sherlock winked at him. John could have cheered.

Sherlock then began to search carefully through Seamus' pockets. He glanced at some small change and then pulled out a lighter. He tried it. It worked. He dropped all of this on the floor. _Inconsequential._ Then, he pulled out the man's wallet and, flicking through, came across his business card. He looked at it. The man was a banker. _Not important._ He worked in Fulham. _Interesting._ He stood up, still clutching the card. 

He recalled the other victims, remembered their working locations. _Covent Garden, Barking, Euston._

He closed his eyes. Of course.

“Lestrade,” he asked, softly. “The last victim, the one from the Embankment. Where did she work?”

“She was visiting London,” the Inspector replied. “She was staying with a friend. That house, it wasn't her home. She lived and worked on the Isle of Man.”

Sherlock frowned. “She'd flown in from the Isle of Man? And headed straight to the Embankment?” 

Lestrade shrugged. “No,” he waved a hand. “I wanted to fill you in on all of this sooner, what we'd found out but what with the attack -.”

“Never mind that!” Sherlock snapped. He was animated now, excited. “Answer me!”

“She stayed the night in a hotel near the airport.”

Sherlock smiled triumphantly. “And did she fly into London City?”

John was looking from one man to the other. This was good. This was the best kind of therapy for Sherlock. This was _perfect._

Sherlock began to pace the room. “This is why I wanted to see that last body, I knew there was something I was missing, something right there,” he smacked his hand against his forehead; “Right in front of my eyes.” He looked over at the others, exhilarated. “All the victims. They _do_ all have something in common.”

“What,” Lestrade demanded. “What did we miss?”

Sherlock held up the card for Lestrade and John to see. “They all had their business cards on them, the day they died.”

Lestrade shrugged. He was clearly frustrated, and a little disappointed. “That's hardly a stretch, Sherlock. Most people have business cards. We all do, don't we?”

John coughed. “Actually -.”

“No,” Sherlock snapped, impatiently. “This is not a coincidence. Think about it. What do they all have in common? What connects Fulham, Covent Garden, Esuton and London City Airport?”

Lestrade and John looked at him blankly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Travel Lodges!”

John looked confused. Lestrade blinked.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Think about it.” He urged. “They have all stayed at different Travel Lodges around the capital, and I'm sure you'll see if you look into it, recently. Four completely different people with different lives with one thing in common. They stay at Travel Lodges in connection with work if they can't get home.” He began to pace again. “Travel Lodges, you'll find, run a competition. They ask guests to leave their business cards in a box, usually placed on the reception desk, to win another stay. Our victims would have entered this, none of them were well off if their hotels of choice in London were Travel Lodges, and they would have needed to stay there again. A free room would have come in handy.” 

He looked out of the window. “Our killer must have access to that box, he must pick the cards at random, that's how he chooses the victims. Its a game to him, it's a thrill, like pulling a short straw. He goes from hotel to hotel, picks just one card.” Sherlock considered. “Never a handful, that would ruin the thrill. Like a quiz game. One card, one victim. _The winner._ He doesn't know his victim until he finds them.” He took a deep breath. “With their business card, he can find their place of work, he can find them easily. This is a mind that thinks in a straight line, stuck in his ways. He wouldn't want to deviate from that path.”

He stopped, and looked towards John, almost questioningly 

John realised that Sherlock was waiting for his verdict. “Fantastic,” he told him, and smiled. Sherlock visibly relaxed, and nodded in gratitude.

Lestrade was just as impressed but still wanted more. “We know how he _finds_ his victims, Sherlock. But we still don't know _who_ he is.”

The detective sighed. “Give me time.”

“But now,” John interjected. “He's made it personal, made it about you. That man's initials are the same as yours.”

Sherlock frowned. “Strange he would change his ways now, after following the same routine for so long. The buzz he gets from not knowing who his next victim will be, that's important to him. He enjoys it.” He faltered for a second. “Maybe the similarity to my name was a lucky coincidence for him, but when it happened, he saw it as a sign. And then he thought he'd up the stakes.”

Lestrade pulled out his phone.

“If we get the Travel Lodges to get rid of those boxes, to stop asking for business cards, will that help?”

Sherlock nodded. “If we mess with his routine, he'll be forced to try something completely new. And that's where he'll become desperate.” He smiled. “And make mistakes.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock an impressed smile. “See what else you can get from the poor fellow, Sherlock. I'm going to have him taken to the morgue when you're done.” And, with that, he quickly left the room.

John grinned. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I can take it you're pleased?”

John's smile widened. “You have no idea.”

Sherlock leaned against the wall, a wave of tiredness suddenly hitting him. 

John joined him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Alright?” he checked.

Sherlock nodded. “I will be. Just give me a minute. I never realised how exhausting being a genius was...” He smiled.

John chuckled.

After a few moments pause, Sherlock stood up straight again. “John, why don't you go and see whether Lestrade has managed to have that competition removed?”

John understood in an instant. Sherlock wanted some time alone. There was still a killer to find and Sherlock wanted to check and see, if there was anything else this room could tell him. And he needed to look, and think, by himself.

“I'll be back.” John told him. “Good luck.”

As John exited the room, there was only one thought in his head. Thank God. Now, he truly believed, Sherlock was going to be okay. That bastard hadn't beaten him. And now, Sherlock would bring the psycho to justice. And make him pay.

Once John had left him, Sherlock moved to the fireplace. He began to look closely at it, looking for anything that could help him. There must be more about this man. There must be so clue, somewhere. He had to find him, stop. Too many had already died. And now, this scum was taunting Sherlock. He'd discover that was his first error. Sherlock was sure more mistakes would come. 

Sherlock's ears pricked up as he heard footsteps behind him. And he recognised the sound. His blood ran cold. He knew exactly who it was before a word was spoken.

“Sherlock?” Anderson whispered.

“I'm busy.”

Anderson grimaced. He then closed the door behind him, and moved further into the room.

“I want to talk to you.” He continued, as pleasantly as he could manage.

Sherlock straightened, but he didn't turn around. He was no longer concerned by the fireplace though. It was taking all his effort to control his breathing. He had to hide his panic. He didn't want Anderson to know how scared he really was.

“Talk,” he repeated. “And what do we have to talk about, Anderson?”

_He had to remain calm, keep his tone normal. He had to stay strong._

“Everything's going well,” Anderson told him, in a low voice. He glanced towards the door, aware they he didn't have long. “I don't think anyone had any suspicions about what I...” he paused, unable to say the words. “About what happened.” He clasped his hands before him. “If we carry on just like this, I think we'll be able to get through this.”

“We?” Sherlock was fighting every urge to run out of the room. “Both of us?”

Anderson frowned. “Well, yes.” He stepped ever nearer. “This affects us both doesn't it? This is your responsibility as much as mine.” He felt a stab of annoyance. “You need to realise that.”

Sherlock slowly turned and looked at him for the first time. Just seeing his rapist, so close to him, even though he looked more nervous than Sherlock, made his skin cruel.

“You want me to accept some blame for my own rape?” He stated, simply.

Anderson flinched at the word but then nodded appreciatively. “Of course. I'm not solely to blame for this mess. That wouldn't have happened if you hadn't provoked me.”

Sherlock stared at him incredulously. “I _provoked_ you?”

Anderson looked again at the doorway. He had to get through to the pompous fool before Dr. Watson returned. _He had to make him see._

“It was just as much your fault as mine.”

Sherlock's eyes widened. “Is that right?”

“If we just keep our mouths shut and stick together on this,” Anderson added; “we _can_ get through it.”

Sherlock couldn't look at him a second longer. He turned his back again, once again feeling the overwhelming need to get away. 

Anderson mistook this reaction. He thought Sherlock needed comforting. He placed a reassuring hand on Sherlock's back and patted him.

“No one will find out, Sherlock,” he said gently. “It'll all be fine. Trust me.” 

Every nerve in Sherlock's body tensed at his touch. “Anderson, “ Sherlock said, very calmly and softly, “if you don't take your hand off of me right now, you'll lose it.”

Anderson pulled away as if he had been burned. “Now, look here...” he hissed in Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock had heard enough. He barged Anderson aside. “Get away from me.”

Anderson caught himself, just managing to stay on his feet. He didn't not appreciate being pushed aside. That familiar anger was surging inside him, once again. He glared daggers at Sherlock's back and then saw, with much satisfaction, that the man was trembling and trying, very unsuccessfully, to hide it. With a cold smile, Anderson stood beside Sherlock again.

“Are you scared of me, Sherlock?” He asked.

“No,” came the quick reply.

“Oh?” Anderson felt calmer now. Safer. “Then, why are you shaking?”

Sherlock kept his head bowed. He could feel the man now, knew he was so close. He wanted to vomit. Panic was seizing him. He had to get away.

“I think you are.” Anderson continued. “I think my being this close to you terrifies you. And, you know, it should.” He held onto the back of Sherlock's neck and squeezed. Not enough to cause the other man any pain but the threat was clear. Sherlock was so white now, he looked close to passing out. Anderson swallowed down his own panic and fears, and that nagging voice that told him to leave the poor man alone and stop this but he knew he couldn't let that voice take over again. This was how he had to be, he had to keep in control of the situation. This is how he could keep Sherlock exactly where he wanted him. On the back foot.

“You know what I'm capable of, don't you?” He hissed. “You remember?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, very quietly. “I remember.”

“Good. So, you just stay silent, there's a good chap. Then I won't have to hurt you again, will I?” Anderson wavered slightly when he heard Sherlock's low moan, from deep in his throat. To be this vindictive, this cruel, it didn't come naturally to the policeman but he knew he sounded a lot stronger than he felt. He could only hope that Sherlock was buying it. 

With a sigh, Anderson pushed Sherlock away from him, hard, and Sherlock collided with the wall.

Anderson turned on his tail then and began to walk towards the door.

“Did you send me that email?” Sherlock asked, keeping his tone steady. He knew the answer, but he wanted to see Anderson's reaction.

“What email?” Anderson asked, confused.

“Never mind.”

With one last perplexed glance, Anderson hurried to the door and opened it.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Sherlock sunk into the wall, gasping for breath, clutching his stomach. He hated the man, hated him with all of his being, but he despised the effect Anderson had on him more than anything. He made Sherlock feel weak. And he had felt so much better, deducing again, using his great mind for good, figuring the case out. Now, that was all ruined, thanks to Anderson. Sherlock was, once again, ruined.

He made up his mind. He would find John. He wanted John with him. And then, they would leave. Lestrade would have to find that killer, do what he was actually paid to do. He would have to hope for a break. It wasn't Sherlock's problem anymore.

He just wanted to go. Be far away from Anderson and never have to clap eyes on him again. That is what Sherlock needed.

He walked purposefully to the door. But when before he opened it, someone got there before him. Sally walked into the room, that permanent smirk still etched on her face. Anderson was leaning against the wall behind her, watching. 

Sally looked over her shoulder, at her lover. “So Mike, shall we have some fun?”

He didn't reply, merely shrugged. That was enough for Donovan.

She looked incensed. Sherlock glowered back. He knew what this was about. He had belittled her one to many times. Now she would get her own back.

She stepped forward. “How you doing, Sherlock?”

“I'm fine,” he snapped. “Excuse me.”

But she barred his way.

Sherlock looked past her, towards the door.

_John, where were you? Lestrade? Anyone?_

“I was wondering,” she continued, with a cruel smile, “if what I'm hearing is true.”

He gave her a condescending look. “Depends what you heard.”

She glowered, but the smile seemed stuck on. “That you've finally managed to have your first sexual experience.”

He flushed. He would not dignify that with an answer.

“Get out of my way,” he snapped.

_Come on, John._

“Funny thing is,” she carried on, leering at him. “Rumour has it that before you were taken up the arse last week, you were a virgin. Is that true?”

She was taking great pleasure in watching him squirm. He hated her. 

“I'll take that as a yes,” she told him, delightfully. “Wouldn't you, Mike?”

Sherlock glanced at Anderson then. He was ever so slightly red, and looking anywhere but at Sherlock. The detective took some grim satisfaction that his rapist was finding this just as uncomfortable as he was.

She sidled up to him. “I guess I'm not the only one who’s been on my knees now, hey, Sherlock?”

He wanted to die. He wanted the floor to swallow him whole. To be taunted like this was bad enough but with Anderson right there, watching? It was too much.

“Tell you what,” Sally purred, her voice low and husky. “Mike and I, we could help you out? Seeing as how you're so naïve about these things. I mean, you only have experience with a man, don't you? Why don't you join Mike and I some time? Enjoy a threesome? We could really give you some pointers and it would be nice to see you, just like he must have done, on your knees, _pleading_ for it...”

“Sally!” Anderson had heard enough.

Donovan took no notice.

Instead, she reached out and grabbed at Sherlock's crotch, through his trousers. The look she gave him was of pure evil. 

Sherlock was horrified. He never wanted to be touched like that. Not now, not ever. He let out a low sob and, desperate to get her away, shoved her backwards.

She smirked again.

“Can't take a joke, freak?” she jeered.

“What’s going on?” 

John was at the door. He looked furious. “What the bloody Hell are you doing? You stay away from him!”

Sherlock looked aghast. _How much had John seen? What had he heard?_

Without any hesitation, Sherlock charged past Donovan, Anderson, John, who tried to reach out and stop him, and Lestrade, who was standing at the bottom of the stairs. John gave chase after him, calling his name. The fleeing man ignored all cries for him to stop and raced out of the house, John not far behind him. 

Sally ambled out of the bedroom, her head held high. 

Anderson eyed her. “You took that too far.”

She shrugged.

Anderson heard a voice, as if from so long ago:

_“Please don't do this. It's gone too far.”_

He shivered.

Lestrade appeared on the landing, clearly both worried and agitated. “What went on in there just then, Donovan?

“Nothing, Sir.”

John came flying back into the room, out of breath and out of his mind with anger and worry.

“What the hell was going on?” he yelled.

“Dr. Watson,” Lestrade urged. “Please calm down.”

“Don't tell me to calm down, Lestrade,” John snarled. “Sherlock was fine just now, back to his brilliant best. I leave him for a few minutes and then he's shoving past me, not answering when I called to him.” His eyes were flashing. “And, in case any of you care, he jumped in a taxi and sped off. And he has no money with him so God only knows what will happen!” He glared at Donovan. “So why don't you tell me what you just did to upset him?”

Donovan knew she was backed into a corner. She held her head high. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

_The freak had it coming._

“I was just having a laugh,” she stated. “Me and him, we always dig at each other. You heard how he taunted me earlier, when you arrived. I wanted to get him back.” A shrug. “It was nothing.”

John was staring at her in disbelief. Then, forgetting himself completely, he made a move toward her.

Lestrade leaped between them. “Dr. Watson,” he warned him. “Don't.”

John ignored Lestrade. He pointed accusingly at Sally. “So, you decided to taunt a _rape_ victim?”

Suddenly, Donovan didn't look so certain. “It wasn't a big deal,” she argued. “I was just kidding around!”

John was momentarily at a loss for words. “You stupid _bitch.”_ He fixed her with a look of utter contempt. “Sherlock was right,” he told her, slowly. “You do fail as a police officer. “ He reconsidered. “Actually, scratch that. You fail as a human being.”

John pulled free of Lestrade's grasp and, with one last hate filled look at Donovan, he rushed down the stairs. He had to try and call Sherlock. He had to do _something._

Lestrade watched him go, sadly. Just as things had taken a turn for the better.

“Get that body out of here, Donovan,” he threw at her. “And then, get out of my sight.”

Sally looked down at the ground. Finally, she felt ashamed. And slightly concerned.

“It was just a joke, Sir,” she tried again, strained.

He looked at her dangerously. “Yeah? Well, your joke backfired. Badly.” He turned away from her. “I want you in my office, first thing tomorrow morning. Now, I want you gone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

With one last hopeful look to Anderson, who wouldn't return her gaze, she left.

Lestrade glanced at Anderson, who was staring into space.

“You alright, Mike?” Lestrade enquired.

Anderson shook himself. “Fine, sir. I'd better help Sally deal with the body.”

He followed her down the stairs. Lestrade watched after him, thoughtful.

Finally, he joined John downstairs. The doctor was on the porch, his mobile phone clamped to his ear.

He was desperate. And beside himself with worry.

“Dammit!” He snapped, removing the phone from his ear only to press a key, trying to recall the same number once again.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he sighed. “Answer the phone!”

XXX

Sherlock sat in the back of the cab, holding on to the hand rail for support. The taxi driver hadn't tried to engage him in pointless conversation and he preferred it that way. It gave him a chance to think. He knew he had no money, that was the main reason he had asked to be taken to Baker Street, he was sure Mrs Hudson would assist him by paying for one taxi ride.

He stared straight ahead. What a strange day, even for him. He pictured John's face as he had barged past him and he closed his eyes, feeling guilty. He wished he hadn't shoved past John but he needed to be out of there, needed to be away from those pathetic people. Sally had bothered him more than he liked to admit. He was sure John would have given it to her, both barrels, for the way she had spoken to him. He was pleased. He hoped John, and Lestrade too, if possible, made her regret it.

And as for Anderson... well, the less Sherlock though about him, the better.

Sherlock suddenly looked out of the window. What underground station had they just passed? Tower Hill? How long had he been in that car? This was wrong. They were going the wrong way. 

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said, clearly. “I said Baker Street. This isn't the right direction.”

The taxi driver stared at him in his rear view mirror, though didn't speak.

Sherlock felt that familiar panic threatening to overwhelm him. He swallowed hard. 

“I asked you a question,” he snapped, pleased that his voice was steady. “Where are we going?”

Again, there was no reply.

Now, Sherlock was scared.

“Stop this car!” He shouted. “Let me out.”

“Sorry, Mr Holmes.” The man's voice was emotionless. “Someone wants a private word with you. Please do not panic.”

Sherlock grabbed for the door handle. It was of course locked. He couldn't get out, he was trapped. That's when it hit him. He must have his phone. It's always in his jacket pocket.

He scrambled around in his pocket and relief flowed through when he felt his phone. He pulled it out and looked at it. He'd received missed calls. Again.

_Got to stop putting this thing on silent._

He luckily had charge and signal.

He dialed John at once.

The driver saw what he was doing. Without warning, the taxi screeched to a halt, the driver pulling over abruptly towards the pavement.

Sherlock heard John's phone ring. Once. Twice. _Answer, John. Please answer._

The taxi driver was getting out of the car.

“Sherlock!” John's worried voice was heard over the line. “Where are you?”

“John, help me! They're taking me...” 

The phone was ripped out of his hand and thrown back into cab as Sherlock was bundled out of the taxi.

Sherlock could still hear John's desperate voice crying out for him as he was dragged towards a waiting Mercedes.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

“Sherlock? Are you there? _Sherlock!_ ”

There was no response. It was hopeless.

John, with a concerned Lestrade watching from over his shoulder, cancelled the call and cursed loudly.

“He's gone,” he told Lestrade furiously. He saw that the Inspector was frowning, trying to figure out what to do. He looked as worried now as John felt. “It's no good,” the doctor added, deflated. “I think someone’s taken him, Lestrade.”

Lestrade let out a deep breath and then looked back towards the house. Police were filing in and out, going about the tasks that he had set for them. Only John and he knew that something bad had befallen Sherlock, and Lestrade preferred to keep it that way, for now. At least until they were completely aware of just how bad the situation was.

He turned again to John, trying to remain positive.

“Don't panic.”

John fixed him with a disbelieving look. “What’s the matter with you? Don't you get it? Sherlock's in trouble!” He covered his face with his hands, agonising. “I should never have let him go. Is this nightmare ever going to be over? This is all my fault.”

Lestrade sighed. He could see that the terrified doctor was on the verge of losing it completely. 

“That's not true, John, and you know it.” He replied, firmly. “None of this has been any fault of yours.” Lestrade blinked. He, of course, still blamed himself for inviting Sherlock to that damned house in the first place. He swallowed, forcing his guilt back down once more. “You have to keep it together.” He urged John. “If not for yourself, then for Sherlock. You're the only lead we have right now.”

John took a deep breath. Lestrade was right. How exactly was his panicking benefiting Sherlock? 

He placed his hands back at his side, and then, holding his emotions at bay once more, turned and regarded the Inspector. “Okay, go on then. Ask me,” he allowed.

“What did he say?” Lestrade enquired, trying to keep the worry out of his tone. “Did he mention anything that could help us find him before he got cut off?” 

John hesitated. He could still hear Sherlock, desperately pleading him. “He asked for my help, that was all he managed before he was cut off.” He looked down, trying to hide his anguish. “He sounded,” his voice broke, as he recalled Sherlock's desperation. “He sounded terrified.”

Lestrade hesitated. “And you say he left here in a taxi?”

John nodded. He began to walk away from Lestrade, heading towards the main road. The Inspector gave chase and pulled on his arm.

“Where are you going, doctor?”

John glared. “Where do you think? I have to find him.”

Lestrade shook his head quickly. “And where do you think you’re going to start? You going to search every cab in London?”

John glowered at him, his eyes blazing. “I can't just stand here and do nothing. What if _he's_ taken him? What if—”. His words trailed off. He couldn't complete the sentence. He didn't even want to think about it.

Lestrade clasped his shoulder. “I know you're scared. I am too. But we really have to look at this rationally and smartly. Whoever has taken Sherlock, and we have no idea who that is yet, may not want to hurt him.”

John eyed him. Clearly, that was not giving him too much relief.

“Or, they might rape him again.” He retorted. “Or kill him. Or maybe torture him. Get where I'm going?” Images of a bloodied Sherlock flashed into his mind. “I was worried this might happen. If it was the butcher, then the killer would have wanted to finish the job.” He shrugged helplessly. “He was always going to come back.”

 _“Sir?_ ”

They both looked up abruptly. Donovan had walked over. She looked uncertain, nervous. 

“Sorry, Inspector, for interrupting you.” She brushed her hair away from her eyes. John could seen how unsure she now was in his presence, and he was glad. He hoped she felt terrible. She should do. “I needed your say so to move the body.” Donovan was saying. “Everything is all set.”

John was giving Donovan a slightly murderous look. Lestrade cleared his throat. He needed to make sure he kept control here, or things could get nasty. He stepped closer to John, just in case the incensed doctor made a move.

“Alright, Donovan. You can get the body to the morgue.” He jerked his head, signalling for her to leave, and to leave quickly. “I'll meet you there.”

Donovan nodded obediently to her superior and then glanced questioningly at John. She raised an eyebrow, not very impressed with his continuous staring.

“Something wrong?” She asked him flippantly. 

_She didn't feel that bad then._

He saw red.

“This is your fault,” he snarled at her, fists clenched. How he hated her.

She glared back at him, not understanding what his latest problem was. She figured, quite easily, that this had something to do with his freakish friend. She honestly hadn’t meant her joke to go as far as it did and she now regretted her words and actions, but what could she do? Sherlock Holmes had been through a tough time, she knew that, but she had not been aware that his ordeal had broken him completely. And she couldnt help the fact that a broken Sherlock Holmes gave her warm, fuzzy feelings inside. Sherlock didn’t deserve her sympathy. When had he ever shown any to one single victim? Now he was the one hurt and in pain, everything was oh so different. Well, not for her. 

Sally sighed impatiently. She knew she would pay for her error in judgement. She would be a good girl, would smile and get on with whatever punishment was dished out. She would even swallow her pride and apologise to the freak if she was ordered to. She frowned. What she didn't need, right then, though was to have to play games with that annoying little doctor. She wanted to get away from there, and him. It had not been a good day for her.

“What are you saying?” She asked him, wearily. “I've already told you I didn't mean-”.

“Someone's taken him.” John snapped loudly, cutting across her. “After what you did to him, he jumped in a taxi to get away, and now, he's gone!” He was only just managing to keep his temper in check. All he wanted to do was to slap her, shake her, and make her pay. He wanted this to be over, to have his friend back, and safe. He leaned towards Sally, and was actually gratified to see her flinch slightly. “If they hurt him, I swear to God...”

Donovan stood her ground.

“You'll what? Hit a woman?” She wagged a finger in his face. “Is that the kind of man Sherlock Holmes has turned you into?”

John's eyes widened. “You don't know the first thing about Sherlock Holmes, or me, for that matter.” He was nose to nose with her now. “You have no idea what he went through, how broken he was after what that bastard did to him. He raped him, Donovan. He held him down and ripped him apart, beating him, degrading him. He also tried to ruin him but Sherlock fought back from that. He was actually winning, until you turned up, and thought you'd tear him down again. And now you stand there, smirking, acting all superior. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Lestrade grabbed John's arm. “That's enough.” He held on to the raging man, pulling him away from Donovan, trying to stop a situation unfolding that they would all regret. “This isn't helping, John. Leave her.”

John wrestled free from Lestrade, considered confronting the spiteful bitch again but then caught himself. Lestrade was, annoyingly, right. Despite perhaps making John feel slightly better, attacking Donovan was not going to help. Sherlock was important, not that spiteful little madam. He couldn't let that vicious cow take up one more iota of his thoughts. So, he turned away from her, fuming silently, his hands plunged deep into his pockets. 

He heard Lestrade swiftly dismiss Donovan, harshly and coldly, he was pleased to note, and then the Inspector was at his side again.

“I'm sorry about that,” Lestrade informed him. “I'll deal with her later.”

“Her far too obvious pleasure in Sherlock's suffering is sickening.” John told him. “She's a disgrace.”

Lestrade scowled. “I agree with you, believe me. But, she can wait. Right now, we need to concentrate on Sherlock.” He took a hold of the other man's arms and turned him round, so that John and he were now facing each other. John was painfully reminded of a moment similar to how he now found himself in the not to distant past. But then, it had been Sherlock holding him. “Please, Dr Watson.” Lestrade appealed, bringing him back to the now. “I need you to think. You know Sherlock better than anyone. What would he do, if he was investigating this kidnapping?” 

“How should I know?” John barked. He was so tired.

“Because you know him best.” Lestrade replied, keeping calm. “What would he do in our position?”

“I don't know,” he sighed exhaustedly. “I just can't think.”

The Inspector frowned. “Okay,” he pulled out his phone once more and placed it to his ear. “I didn't want to report Sherlock's kidnap so soon but I don't know what else I can do. We have nothing to go on, no one to look for. I have to move quickly with this.” He hesitated before continuing. “And there's people high up who will want to know what's happening.”

John gave him a reproachful look. _Oh yes._ He knew there were plenty of important people keeping tabs on Sherlock. Shame they weren't doing a better job of it. Shame the surveillance was so piss poor. “They'll want to know, will they?” His eyes narrowed. “I just hope that they’ll do something about it.”

Lestrade glanced away, uncomfortable. After a moment, he gave John a quick but hopefully reassuring nod and then walked away, needing to make his very urgent phone call.

John watched him go, wondering what good would come of his call. As he stood there, thoughtful, Anderson approached him, looking nervous. He fixed Anderson with a suspicious glare. He was not in the mood for small talk.

“Now is not the time,” he warned the officer, as he drew nearer. “Probably best to steer clear of me right now, please, Anderson.”

Anderson suddenly looked very unsure. John knew he shouldn't have taken his frustrations and worries out on the other man. “Sorry,” he said, quietly. 

Anderson seemed to visibly relax. For a second, John wondered what the man had to be so relieved about. And then, he realised.

Whoever had taken Sherlock, they had affected Anderson's life too. No wonder the policeman was so nervy. 

_It must be crossing his mind;_ John mused. _This scum had come back for Sherlock. What if he came back for Anderson too?_

“Has something happened?” Anderson enquired softly. “I overheard the Inspector mentioning something about Sherlock.”

“Overheard?” John frowned. “Or, do you mean actually mean to tell me that you were listening in?”

Anderson was taken aback.

“It's true, then?” He sounded so concerned. John couldn't stay angry. “The bastard who did this to me, he's taken Sherlock?”

John sighed. “I don't know what’s happened exactly. I think he's been kidnapped though, yes.”

Anderson's eyes widened. “How is that possible? He was with you, wasn't he?!”

A wave of guilt hit John and he looked down.

“I... I lost him.” He managed, and closed his watering eyes tightly. “I _did_ let this to happen. I should have stayed with Sherlock.” Then, more to himself, “why did I leave him alone?”

“Don't blame yourself,” Anderson soothed, placing a comforting hand on John's arm. “He'll be okay. We'll find him.”

John gestured uselessly. “We don't even know who's taken him, Anderson. Or why.”

“He's a clever man,” Anderson continued, in the same sympathetic tone. “Cleverer than the guy who took him. He'll get away.”

John eyed him bleakly. “He didn't get away from his rapist though, did he?”

Anderson said nothing. He also didn't react. He just kept watching John intently.

John couldn't stop the tear that suddenly formed. He wiped it away quickly.

“That bastard,” he snapped. “If I could get hold of the piece of shit that did this -”.

“Doctor,” Anderson interjected. He suddenly felt the need to change the subject. “Could it be anything to do with Mr Holmes receiving that email?”

John blinked. He looked up quickly. “What?”

Anderson cleared his throat. “Sherlock mentioned an email to me, just before he disappeared. Maybe we should investigate that? The man who sent it could have taken him.”

John was completely thrown. “Why would Sherlock bring that up with you?” He leaned closer. “No offence Anderson, but you and Sherlock are hardly buddies, are you?” He was glaring now, and Anderson seemed to be suddenly panicking. “As far as I'm aware, only four people alive know about that email. Me, Sherlock, a trusted source and whoever sent it.” He grasped Anderson's arm. “So, why would he tell you about it?”

Anderson had paled. And he was thinking fast.

“I was attacked by this man too, doctor,” he retorted, haughtily. “Sherlock was worried that I could have received a similar email. He and I were both that bastard's victims that night. I know I got off easily compared to him, but it's not been a picnic for me either. I have had to live with knowing that maybe I could have prevented what happened in that house. Do you know how that makes me _feel?”_

John sighed inwardly. Anderson was being typically melodramatic but the man had a point. Why did John insist on jumping to conclusions where Anderson was concerned? 

“I'm sorry,” he said again. “I'm just worried. I shouldn’t be taking this out on you.”

Anderson's lips twitched. “As long as we find Sherlock,” he stated. “That’s all that matters now.”

John smiled gratefully. He had to hand it to Anderson, the guy had certainly been on the receiving end of plenty of Sherlock's belittling and taunting, but that beating back at that house, that night, it had apparently made him a better person. John couldn't help but be impressed.

Lestrade suddenly reappeared, his mobile phone still attached to his ear.

“Be on your way, Mike.” The Inspector snapped, and Anderson, with a lingering glare at his superior, nodded respectfully to John, and then made his way back towards the house. 

As he went, and when he was sure he couldn't be seen by either John or Lestrade, he smiled with satisfaction.

He needed to keep John Watson on his side. That way, John would never suspect him. So far, he was doing a great job.

He was proud of himself. And, for the first time since he and Sherlock's altercation, he could breathe slightly easier.

_Perfect. I'm off the hook. I didn't send that email, so someone else is taking credit for what I did. Suits me. And, with luck, whoever has Sherlock will put him out of his misery, and he won't be my problem any more either. I won't have to worry about him betraying me now. With Sherlock gone, all I have to do is keep schtum. No one will ever know._

He had every reason to feel confident, and a spring back in his step, as he hurried into the house. 

Unaware of his colleague's delight, Lestrade waited until he was certain that Anderson was out of earshot before offering his phone to John, much to the doctor's surprise.

“What's going on?” John questioned, after a pause

Lestrade pursed his lips together. He was clearly none to pleased. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”

John's confusion increased. “Who?” He demanded.

The Inspector's impatience was growing. “I do _person_ appeared on the line. The call must have been diverted. He then asked to speak to you.” He gestured, annoyed, when John still didn't react. “So, here you go, doctor. Probably best not to keep him waiting.”

Apprehensively, John took the mobile from Lestrade, and then brought it carefully up to his ear.

“Hello?” He whispered. What was this? Why would anyone high up in the police force need to speak to him?

He soon got his answer.

“Good day, doctor,” came a familiar voice.

John knew that clipped tone anywhere.

“Mycroft?”

“That's right, John.”

John had never been so pleased to hear that posh voice. Now, there was hope. Mycroft would know what to do.

“You have to help me. Sherlock is missing.”

“Slow down, Dr. Watson. Sherlock has disappeared, you say?”

John flinched. “It's worse than that. I think he's been kidnapped. I'm terrified for him.”

The line went quiet.

John waited.

“Very well, John, I'll meet you. I think Baker Street would be the most convenient location. So, at your flat, in, say, thirty minutes? Excellent. Can you get from Waterloo to your home in that time?”

“Yes, I hope so, depending on traffic.” John stopped. _Wait a moment._ “Hang on one second,” he queried, taken aback. “How did you know I was near Waterloo?”

Mycroft tutted. He almost sounded amused. “Really John, as if I'd let you or Sherlock out of my sight now.”

John felt defensive. Funnily enough, being followed was not his idea of a fun time.

“What happened then?” John replied coldly. “Did you blink? Is that why Sherlock's vanished?”

There was another long pause. John wondered if he had gone too far. He did need Mycroft to help him find Sherlock, after all. If the elder Holmes was as childish as the younger, John might have just ruined his, and Sherlock's, only real chance.

Finally, Mycroft spoke again. “I'll see you very soon.”

Then he disconnected the call.

John passed the phone back to Lestrade. From the knowing glance the Inspector quickly threw his way, it was clear Lestrade had had pass experience himself in dealing with Sherlock's older brother. And it seemed that, despite his earlier words, Lestrade knew exactly who Mycroft was. 

John cleared his throat.

“I couldn't trouble you for a lift home, could I?”

The Inspector considered his request for a moment. “If I come with you,” he responded, and then pointed towards one of the empty patrol cars.

With a quick call to Anderson, advising him cuttingly that he was in charge, Lestrade, with John right behind him, hurried to the nearest car.

As John pulled open the car door and climbed inside, all he could think about what was Sherlock. What if they were already too late? Why didn’t he think about involving Mycroft long before? Was it some crazy loyalty to Sherlock, because he knew how his brother's involvement would rile his friend? And even if they did find Sherlock, would state would he be in? Would there be anything left of the man that actually made him Sherlock Holmes?

And how was John supposed to help him find it?

XXX

The patrol car skidded to a halt outside 221B Bakers Street. John, not wanting to delay the search for Sherlock any more than they already had, unlocked the door and shot inside. Lestrade was not too far behind. As John threw open the living room door, expecting to see Mycroft waiting impatiently for him, he got the shock of his life. Mycroft was stood, quite calmly, leaning against the far wall. And, sitting on the sofa, a few feet away from him, was Sherlock. John could not believe his eyes. Forgetting there was any other person in that room but him and his friend, John rushed forward, and throwing down in front of his friend, he pulled Sherlock into a big bear hug. John was so overjoyed, so relieved, he didn't care that Mycroft was watching him disapprovingly. 

He didn't even notice that Sherlock was not hugging him back. 

Lestrade broke the silence. With a loud “humph,” he turned and pulled open the front door again.

“I give up,” he exclaimed. “I've got a killer to find, and a crime scene probably wrecked by the cretin I left in charge, while I wasted my time, helping to look for you.” He gestured to Sherlock, who didn't even react. “Fine,” Lestrade finished. “I'll leave you lot to it, then.”

No one bothered to respond.

Lestrade shook his head. “Good luck,” he snapped. And then, he rushed out.

John, far to concerned with the welfare of Sherlock to consider giving Lestrade any of his time, was running a hand over Sherlock's forehead, his face screwed up with worry.

“Are you okay?” the doctor queried. “You're burning up.”

When Sherlock didn't respond, Mycroft answered the question for him. “He'll be fine.”

John paused. It was not a good sign that Sherlock would not even look at him. His friend continued to stare only straight ahead. It was eerie. John regarded Mycroft coldly. 

“What happened? Where did you find him?”

Mycroft smiled. John wanted to hit him.

“He was exactly where I expected him to be, Dr Watson.”

John froze. “Meaning?”

Mycroft glanced down at his suit, played with his tie.

John's eyes narrowed. “You took him?”

For the first time since John had seen him that day, Mycroft looked unsure. “I needed to speak to my brother alone. I had to get through to him, John.” He nodded expectantly. “You understand this, I'm sure.”

John clearly didn't. In fact, he could not believe his ears. “Understand what?” He asked slowly. “That you kidnapped your own brother?”

“Please, Dr Watson.” Mycroft beseeched him, his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Try to understand my position. I was worried for his safety. My people informed me that Sherlock was upset and leaving that crime scene alone. I didn't want him to be a danger to himself or others, it was imperative that he had others with him at all times. I therefore had him picked up and escorted to a safe location where he and I could also use the opportunity to talk uninterrupted.” He straightened his tie again. “My people were told to be gentle and patient with him.”

John clenched his fists. “Well, they weren't, were they? I was on the phone when they took him, and it sounded very much like Sherlock was being dragged, very much against his will.”

Mycroft looked stern. “I agree the matter was not dealt with a delicately as it should have been.”

“Oh?” John answered. “It wasn't.”

_“The men involved have been dealt with, believe me.”_

Those words turned John's blood cold. He didn't know how to respond.

“I then brought him back home,” Mycroft continued, “Once I had arranged the meeting time with you.” He smiled hopefully. “So you see? He's quite fine.”

John's look was murderous. “He doesn't look fine.”

Sherlock had turned deathly pale. His unnerving stare didn't waver though. He didn't even blink.

No one spoke for several moments. Finally, John cleared his throat.

“Do you know what you've done?” He hissed.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Pull yourself together, Dr Watson.”

John had heard enough. He couldn't take any more. What kind of crazy world did these two brothers live in?

“Could I speak to you outside, please, Mycroft?” John requested, his eyes blazing.

Mycroft shrugged. He walked past Sherlock, only pausing as he did so to put an object down beside him. He stared at his brother, trying to gain some kind of acknowledgement from him. Sherlock didn't react. John looked harder, and saw that Mycroft had returned his brother's phone. John remembered how frightened Sherlock had sounded the last time he assumed he had spoken on that device, just how desperate. 

His face reddened. He would not let Mycroft get away with this, so help him.

Mycroft managed two steps onto the landing before he was stunned to find himself grabbed by his lapels, and slammed bodily against the wall by the incensed Dr Watson.

John had never felt so angry. What kind of man could terrorise his own brother like that? How dare he treat Sherlock _like that?_ What gave him the right?

“How could you?” John hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

John was a long way beyond all of his limits. He no longer felt the need to keep control. 

Mycroft didn't fight back, or try to harm John. He merely gazed calmly at him. “John,” he whispered. “I want you to consider carefully what you are doing.”

John only glared daggers at him. 

Mycroft tried again. “I know you care deeply about my brother, Dr Watson, so I am going to ask you, just once more, to let go of me.”

John faltered. He heard not only the warning in Mycroft's tone, but also the appeal. Mycroft didn't want to hurt John, nor he didn't want any of his people to harm him. John released his hold on Mycroft's jacket carefully and stepped back, breathing hard.

Mycroft straightened his clothes. “We will forget this occurred, in light of recent events, I feel.” He announced, more loudly than necessary. John was pretty certain the man wasn't talking to him. Then, Mycroft have him a cold stare.

With a heavy sigh, John gave in, collapsing back against the wall, his head in his hands. He was so tired, so defeated. He had actually felt some hope, a little ray of sunshine in all of the darkness. And now it had been snatched so cruelly away. Now, they were back at first base. 

“How could you be so stupid?” John moaned.

Mycroft grimaced. “I had to talk to him. I wanted to get through to him. I thought I could.”

“By terrifying him?” John was stunned. “Do you actually know what you've done? Do you?”

“I wanted to make him see sense.” 

Mycroft began to move towards the steps. John followed him, just keeping his anger at bay. 

“He was getting there,” he snapped. “He nearly solved a case today. And now you've probably ruined everything. Well done.”

Mycroft spun round at that. His body language was that of a man in control, but his eyes told a different story. They were flaming. “He is my brother, Dr. Watson. I am concerned about him. Just like you.”

John chuckled darkly. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

Mycroft suddenly cut the space between them, his face leaning right into John's. “Are you aware then, John, that my brother knows his rapist?”

John hesitated. “What?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did he tell you that?”

Mycroft sighed. “Not in so many words, but I guessed. I _know_ my brother. He's close to the man, sees him often. I still don't know who it is, but I am getting closer, and Sherlock is aware of that. And he's scared.”

John tightened his fists. Damn Mycroft. _Why did he always have to know better?_

“It could still be the Butcher.” John argued. “He set up the crime scene today to look like...”

“I know.” Mycroft interrupted, with a disgruntled look. “It is true that the killer is involving himself in Sherlock's life now. And he is enjoying himself immensely.” His eyes blazed. “But he did not rape him,” he added, firmly.

John glowered. “Then, who did?”

“I don't know.” A pause. “Yet.”

Mycroft turned on his heel again and this time began to descend the stairs.

John wasn't finished yet.

“You follow Sherlock and me, don't you?”

“Of course.”

“Every day?”

“Every minute of every day.”

“Then how come you weren't watching Sherlock _that_ night?”

The last line was hissed with such venom, Mycroft paused at the door.

“Because I was watching you. And he was supposed to be with you, I believe.”

That hurt. John closed his eyes tightly, and he shook his head, trying to clear the pain.

“John,” Mycroft said; “Sherlock asked me today to leave him alone and let it go. But I will not respect his wishes. I cannot.” He looked down. “I _will_ not allow this man to escape justice, John. No one hurts my brother.” He gripped the door knob. “No one.”

“No one but you,” John whispered. “You think I want the bastard to get away with it, either? But you can't scare Sherlock like that. He can't take it, Mycroft.”

“I didn't want to hurt him,” Mycroft replied, regret finally recognisable in his tone. “But when I told you that you wouldn't like my methods should I get involved, I meant it. I leave for Brussels again tomorrow, I wanted this matter cleared up before I left. That will not happen now.” He paused. “Find who did this, John. Work it out. Because if there is no change upon my return, in Sherlock or in the case, I will take over completely. And you can now understand why it is probably best to avoid that outcome.” He smiled politely, as if they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Good afternoon, Dr. Watson.”

And with that, Mycroft had pulled open the door and had slipped through. And then he was gone, too.

John stared after him angrily, annoyed he had allowed Mycroft to have the last word. Still, he was resolved now. He would solve this. He would show Mycroft and Sherlock that he was capable. And, he would also prove to them that it was possible to get to the truth, without terrorising Sherlock.

John walked back into their living room, closing the door quietly behind him. Still, Sherlock didn't stir. It was as if he was in a trance, just sitting there, staring into space. 

Somewhat nervously, John moved to sit beside him.

“Sherlock?” he attempted, as gently as possible. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock didn't answer.

“Do you need anything? Something to eat or drink?”

Still nothing. John could feel his patience wearing thin.

“Are you cold? Need a blanket?”

There was still no answer. It was like talking to an empty space. And it terrified John.

With a weary sigh, John got to his feet and started to head towards the kitchen.

“I'll leave you to your thoughts.” He told Sherlock. “Call if you need me.”

_“I thought it was going to happen again.”_

John stopped. He turned and looked at Sherlock. 

“Sorry?”

“When they grabbed me,” Sherlock continued, his voice cold and unemotional. “I thought they were going to...” He gathered himself, managing to force out the words. “I thought they would hurt me. _Like he did._ ”

John was beside his friend again in an instant.

“You're okay, you're safe now.”

“I'm not safe, John.” Sherlock looked at him then, despair in his eyes. To see the pain there, in that once strong, knowledgeable gaze, broke John's heart. “He's still in here,” Sherlock continued, tapping the side of his head. “He's still with me.”

“Sherlock—”.

“I can feel him, John. I can still feel him,” his voice broke with emotion as he completed his wretched sentence; “inside me.”

John didn't know what to say, or what to do. Sherlock looked away, still desperately trying to stop the tears, but this time it was useless. They poured from his red-rimmed eyes, staining his face. Sherlock covered his face, embarrassed at his own weakness. John sat down next to him once more, this time putting his arm around Sherlock and pulling him close. Sherlock, surprised by the affection shown to him, tried to pull away but John only held him tighter. With a sob of defeat, Sherlock moved closer to his friend, finally accepting his embrace. Sherlock laid his head against John's arm, needing to be close to him, needing to feel safe, respected, and most of all, loved.

“She was right,” Sherlock suddenly stated, in a tiny voice.

“Who was?” John replied.

“Donovan,” he cringed, embarrassed to say the words. “I am... I _was_... a virgin.”

John frowned, and then began to stroke Sherlock's hair. “It's okay,” he urged him. “It doesn't matter.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. It does matter. Look at me. A grown man and the only experience I have of sex in my lifetime is one of pure brutality and total humiliation. It never seemed important before, but now? I can't bear to be touched, John. I... I....” He stammered, unable to find the right word. A rarity for him. He closed his eyes tightly. “I _am_ worthless. A freak, just like they said.”

John gritted his teeth. To see Sherlock this broken, this at odds with himself, when his friend had always been so arrogant, so in control. Even during the Moriarty incident, Sherlock hadn't wavered. But now, he was a shadow of his former self. It was heartbreaking.

John knew, with a sicking feeling, Donovan's vicious words had caused Sherlock more harm than Mycroft's ill-advised kidnap attempt ever could. Her and Anderson's taunting was the real reason Sherlock had finally cracked, not his brother.

 _I'll kill them,_ John promised himself. _With my bare hands. Slowly and painfully_.

“Listen to me, Sherlock.” He said firmly. “You're incredible. You're the most amazing man I've ever met. You are _not_ a freak.”

“John, don't leave me.” He sounded so lost, so un-Sherlock like, John was very nearly despairing. He had to stay strong though, for Sherlock. He would pull him through this. He had to. 

“I'm here,” John promised. “I wont let anyone get to you again.”

Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes sore, wide and so desperate. John, wanting to comfort Sherlock any way possible, leaned down and placed his lips against his friend's, kissing him gently. 

“John,” Sherlock moaned, moving his head, startled. “What are you doing?”

“It's okay, Sherlock. Don't worry. I just wanted to prove to you that showing someone how much you love them doesn't have to mean agony, it shouldn't be brutal and cruel. It should be gentle, tender.” He smiled. “It should be exactly how you deserve it to be.”

He leaned forward again, and kissed Sherlock once more. This time, not only did Sherlock not protest, he actually returned the kiss. He was hesitant and nervous, and the kiss was awkward. John touched Sherlock's face, brushing his cheek, caressing him. This wasn't about sex, there was no gain for him, other than trying to offer some comfort to his hurting best friend. And, as he felt Sherlock reacting, relaxing into the kiss and embrace, he wondered if it would actually work.

Then, of course, Sherlock pulled away. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling. He would not look at the doctor.

John frowned. “Sherlock?”

When he failed to reply, John probed again. “What's wrong?”

When Sherlock did speak, just like back in the hospital, John had to strain to hear him.

“You shouldn't feel like you have to touch me.”

“I didn't _have_ to.” John responded, his voice trembling. “I _wanted_ to.”

"But I'm..." He hesitated, searching for the appropiate word. "I'm... _tainted_..."

After a moment, it dawned on John exactly what Sherlock was getting at, and he gazed, devastated, at his friend. "No," he responded, slowly. "You're not."

Sherlock met the doctor's gaze once more. “I'm scared John. I'm so scared that he's ruined me. That I'll never be,” another pause, “ _me_ again.”

“I know.”

“I...I...What am I going to do?” He closed his eyes again. Just speaking was proving a struggle for him. Being this honest, this vulnerable, even to John, wasn't easy. “How do I get past this?”

“I'll help you. We'll fight him together.” He grasped Sherlock's hand. “Do you feel that?” He squeezed. “I'm right here, Sherlock. And I'm not going _anywhere._ ”

Sherlock, with a contented sigh, rested his head against John's and they stayed there, like that, holding each other. Sherlock finally began to sob, letting out all his pain, fear, anger and hatred all in one go and John let Sherlock cling to him, giving his friend his support, helping him through. 

Finally, exhausted emotionally and psychically, Sherlock quietened and slowly drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

John stayed there, next to him, holding him. He had made up his mind. 

Until morning, he would _not_ let him go.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

_Sherlock was walking. The corridor was dark, cold, and uninviting. But he knew he had to keep walking. He didn't know where he was going, or for even how long he would need to walk. The corridor seemed endless. He passed door after door, but he didn't stop at any of them. They weren't the right doors. He had to keep walking, he had to get to the end. And nothing could stop him._

_He couldn't remember how he had got there. Or even where THERE was. He thought it was an old house. It felt like an old house. But this corridor really did defy logic. How much longer could it carry on for? And how could there be so many doors on either side?_

_This corridor was wrong. He knew that. This was the wrong corridor._

_He had his coat on. Of course he had his coat on. It was cold. He never went out without his coat. This did make sense. He felt calm, contented. He wasn't scared. What did he have to be scared about? It was only a corridor! The corridor couldn't hurt him. What laid beyond these doors, now that could, but as long as he didn't deviate, as long as he stayed on the path set out for him, and kept on walking, he would be fine. And it would all be over eventually._

_There was a door in front of him. He stopped. He had arrived. He had reached the end of the long corridor and it was time to conclude his journey. What would he find there? Had he made the right choices on route? Why was his heart beating faster now? What did he expect to find beyond this new door that had appeared out of the darkness, as if by magic?_

_Why did he ask so many questions?_

_Time for the answers._

_He pushed open the door. It was unlocked. Of course it was. The door was there to be opened. It had been waiting for him._

_He stepped through._

_He was in a large room. And he was standing by a swimming pool._

_He froze. He knew this place. How could he be here?_

_Now, he was unsure. And he was nervous. This place, this place was not a good memory for him. Bad things happened here. This was not where he wanted to be. This is not where his corridor, his journey – this is not where it was supposed to lead._

_He turned on the spot, looking all around. No. This is not the end of the story. They escaped from here. This place was destroyed._

_This was wrong._

_He looked up. There was a man standing the other side of the pool._

_No.  
This was so wrong._

_The man had his back to him._

_Who was he?_

_Sherlock could hear the swooshing sounds of the pool. The room was very big, he could hear every little sound echoing back to him. And now, he was not alone._

_And then he realized. He knew this man._

_“John?”_

_The man turned and faced him._

_Sherlock was surprised, his own voice sounded quiet, so wrong. He didn't sound like himself._

_Why was John here? He shouldn’t be. They had both escaped from this room before. The room was destroyed, nothing left of it._

_This was wrong._

_“You shouldn't be here.” He told his friend._

_John stared back._

_“Evening,” he stated, loudly and clearly. “This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?”_

_“No.” He wasn't going to play this game again. And this time, it was different. There was no bomb underneath John's coat. In fact, John wasn't wearing his coat._

_John continued to gaze at him. He said nothing else._

_“Say something,” Sherlock found himself imploring. “Tell me what's going on.”_

_John just stood there. He still made no attempt to respond._

_Sherlock couldn't bear his silence._

_“Please,” he whimpered. “Talk to me.”_

_Then, there was another voice._

_“What is the point?”_

_Sherlock jumped._

_Jim Moriarty moved forward, pausing just behind John, his hands deeps in his pockets._

_“Hi,” he purred; in his sing-song voice. “Good to see you.”_

_No. This was all wrong. “You can't be here.”_

_Moriarty smiled. “But here I am.”_

_“John?”_

_Still, John didn't answer him._

_Moriarty came to a standstill beside the unmoving doctor._

_“You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead.”_

_John ignored Moriarty too. He just continued to stare, expressionless, at Sherlock._

_Jim frowned. He then turned and looked cruelly at Sherlock._

_“But what's the point of talking, hey Johnny?” He pointed at Sherlock. “He never listens to you anyway. Best not say anything at all.”_

_Sherlock was angry. He knew that much for certain. He also knew that none of this made any sense. This place, Moriarty, John. It wasn't right. Was he, Sherlock Holmes, wrong too?_

_“I do listen to him.”_

_High pitched, Moriarty replied, “No, you don't.” And then, his eyes grew big and wide, as he suggested, “Maybe you should start?” He smirked. “Or you're not going to get off this path, my dear.”_

_Sherlock blinked. “This is the path I'm supposed to be on.”_

_Jim suddenly held up a knife, fingering it gently. He smiled. “Is it?”_

_“No.” Sherlock went to move forward but stopped at Moriarty's warning look._

_“Don't hurt him.”_

_“You're right, Sherlock.”_

_That voice came from right behind him. No. Not that voice. That hated voice. Why is he here? What is happening?_

_Anderson was behind Sherlock. Sherlock didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to see. When he saw him, the shame and the hatred were overwhelming. He had to keep looking at John. Sherlock liked to be able to see John. He knew he would be safe then. As long as John was there, near him, beside him, he would be safe._

_Wouldn't he?_

_“What do you think?” Moriarty suddenly said. “How can he help you if you don't trust him?”_

_“I do trust him.” Sherlock was indignant._

_“Then prove it!”_

_Anderson placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. Still, Sherlock did not turn around._

_John. Keep your eyes on John._

_John didn't move, or try to move away from Moriarty. He looked disinterested, standing with his hands in his pockets. Sherlock didn't understand._

_Why is John just standing there, why is he not doing something?_

_“Because you won't let him.” Moriarty was smiling._

_“Get out of my thoughts, you bastard!”_

_Jim chuckled. “But I'm always in there, with you, Sherlock. Didn't you know what? And so is my friend, behind you. Always there, always whispering. We're in your head, now and forever. But John isn't. You won't let John in. Why?”_

_Sherlock was confused. His head hurt. He didn't want to be here any more. He didn't like it here._

_“You're doing well, Sherlock,” Anderson was whispering. “You're being a good boy, nice and obedient. You keep it up.” He added; with spite, “Don't listen to them.”_

_Sherlock shuddered. Not this close. Never this close. Please._

_Wait. He was naked! How was he naked? He hadn't been naked when he'd walked in this room, had he? No. He had definitely been wearing his coat. Why was he naked? He didn't want to be here now._

_Stop it. Anderson is touching him. He never wants to be touched there. Don't do that._

_“Wake up, Sherlock.” Moriarty's voice was forceful now, as he placed the knife under John's throat and STILL John only stared at Sherlock. It was as if, for John, no one else was in the room but Sherlock. Just the two of them. Perhaps he was waiting for Sherlock to say something? Something special?_

_Then, slowly, John nodded._

_Sherlock tried to step forward but was held by Anderson._

_“What!” He yelled then, at John. “What do you want me to say? Tell me!”_

_“Nothing for you to say, Sherlock.” Anderson was purring. “Nothing to confess. We stay on this path. You and I. We'll get there.”_

_Sherlock could feel the chill sweeping through him._

_“Get where?” He said, so quietly. There was no fight left in him._

_“Exactly,” Moriarty snapped. “And that's the problem. Wake up, Sherlock. We need to restart our game. Stop playing his.” A knowing look. “I thought you were better than this. Don't disappoint me, Sherlock.”_

_John smiled at Sherlock. Nodded to him again. Was he encouraging him? What did he want Sherlock to do? What?”_

_“Good dog,” Anderson cooed. “Down on all fours, doggy!”_

_Sherlock was on the ground, kneeling forward, Anderson positioned behind him._

_What was he doing? Why was he obeying? Why was he being Anderson's plaything?_

_No. Please. Not again._

_Moriarty and John were both watching. Neither of them were smiling now._

_Sherlock could see the silent tears falling down John's face._

_“You want to know how worthless you are?” Anderson spat. “You want to know what you are good for?”_

_Sherlock cringed._

_Don't. It hurts. Please don't._

_Anderson actually laughed. “You'll never forget me, will you, Sherlock? I'll never be gone. This path we're on, it confirms one thing. I win. You lose.”_

_And he thrust, pounding into him. Sherlock cried out. Not this again. Don't want this. He can't move, can't struggle. He's trapped. Trapped in his agony, his shame, his own silence._

_Moriarty looks annoyed. “Wake up Sherlock.” His tone was low, dangerous. “Last chance.”_

_And then, he ever so calmly slit John's throat._

_Sherlock screamed. No. This isn't right. This cannot be the ending! No._

_So much blood. All he can see is blood. John was falling, everything was in slow motion. John was dead. Sherlock had let him die. John hit the ground and he kept on staring at Sherlock, staring at him forever, and the tears were still falling from his eyes, even in death. And Anderson wouldn't stop, Anderson didn't notice John. He continued to thrust, to grunt, to laugh. The policeman won't let him go to his friend, because the policeman can't see his friend. Nothing stands in Anderson's way. Nothing._

_Please STOP this!_

_Sherlock's eyes meet Moriarty's._

_“Stop,” Sherlock gasped. “Stop this.”_

_“Only you can do that, Sherlock.” A knowing smile. “Tell John the truth. While you still can.”_

_Moriarty smiled._

_“Wake up, Sherlock.”_

XXX

Sherlock awoke with a start. He blinked twice, staring at the chest of drawers opposite his bed. He knew where he was. His room. He was safe. It had only been a nightmare. Just another bad dream. He covered his face with his hands and took in a deep breath. That one had felt more vivid than ever. More real. He and his sheet were soaked through with sweat. This one had been the worst so far. And his throat, his throat was so sore. 

_Must have been screaming again._

He glanced to his right and was not surprised to see John curled up beside him, facing away from him. The last couple of nights, his friend had taken to laying beside Sherlock, obviously trying to offer him some kind of comfort. John was concerned that Sherlock's dreams were becoming recurring, a sign that Sherlock could need professional help.

_“Go see a therapist.”_

Sherlock had been incredibly unimpressed by that suggestion. Besides, he enjoyed playing with therapists. They didn't normally end up being to helpful. In fact, after an hour session with him, they tended to end up booking themselves into some sort of clinic before the day was out.

He had informed John of this, expecting the doctor would be amused, but John had not found his boasting funny. He had instead flounced off, stating bluntly that he needed some time away from Sherlock. Not before checking that Sherlock was not planning to go outside by himself. Of course.

Because Sherlock was not allowed out into the big bad world without John. Yet John could come and go as he pleased. And he was leaving Sherlock alone all the more commonly since their latest row.

_Fine. I don't need his “nursemaiding” anyway._

Sherlock carefully rose from his bed, not wanting to disturb the still sleeping John. He would only start fussing again, and Sherlock didn't want his concern right then. Sherlock was not a delicate flower, he could manage on his own for a few hours, without breaking down again.

Sherlock frowned. Every since Mycroft had stolen him off the street, ever since John had lost him, even if only for a short while, things had not been so great. And Sherlock didn't have the inclination or the patience right then to put things right. He couldn't help how he felt. He wanted to put everything behind him. Move on. There was still the butcher to find. No, there had been no more killings since Sherlock's brainwave with the Business cards, but the man was still out there, waiting to be found. And Sherlock would not stop until he did find him. Because it was a case, and, unbeknownst to John and Lestrade, it was unconnected to his own problem, so he could throw himself into that and switch off. And when the butcher was caught, there would be the next case, and then the next, anything to keep the name Anderson out of his thoughts. Because that was all he wanted. He wanted to move on. He needed to forget. That wasn't so much to ask, was it?

Sherlock pulled out his dressing gown from his wardrobe and swung it around him, still eyeing John closely, still frowning.

The morning after Sherlock's unfortunate break down, John had wanted another heart to heart with him. Sherlock had shied away from this, he hadn't wanted John to ever see him so vulnerable, it wasn't something he was used too, showing that much emotion, and he had been embarrassed. John, though, had been to pig-headed to notice, and had kept on and on, trying to get him to break again. That is how it had felt to Sherlock anyway. Why did John assume that Sherlock wanted to discuss what had happened? Why would he want to keep going over it? It was in the past, nothing could change what had happened. The thought of everyone finding out haunted Sherlock. If it got out that a weakling, that a clown such as Michael Anderson could overpower Sherlock Holmes and do that to him, he would become a laughing stock. He would be finished. And the possibility of there being a court case, where over paid buffoons would sit and debate the worst day of his life in full details, while he would have to sit there and listen, quietly, to their inane and non-logical deductions and not interfere? No. He wouldn't put himself through that. Moving on was the better option. It was the only option. And John would just have to learn to accept that. And if he couldn't, well, Sherlock had been alone before, hadn't he?

He would not fall apart again. Ever.

_“John, don't leave me...”_

Sherlock cringed. Being that pathetic, that defeated. It would not happen again.

It wouldn't.

John had asked him, later, if he had known his rapist. Or if he had seen him, just for a split second, and had not wanted to say.

Sherlock had bristled and had then told him, very firmly, no, and had quickly tried to change the subject, but John had, typically, not been satisfied. He had explained that Mycroft had mentioned something, put an idea into his head, and that maybe it wasn't the butcher after all, and that maybe, if Sherlock wanted to talk, but was scared of something, or someone...

Sherlock had got annoyed. And John had stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

And that had been the first argument of the last few days. The first of many.

John had returned some time later, with Lestrade in tow. The Inspector had then told Sherlock, very solemnly and apologetically, that the results from the forensic tests done at the house the night of his rape had come back. Sherlock had watched Lestrade, waiting for what he knew as coming. And, sure enough, the tests carried out have proved useless. There was even some chance that the evidence had been tampered with. Lestrade had informed Sherlock then that more investigations would be carried out and that this wasn't the end. Sherlock had nodded dumbly. Because it was the end. He knew it, it was the other two, three including Mycroft, that were having the problems accepting that. 

_Of course the tests had been tampered with,_ he had actually just about prevented himself from yelling. _Can't you fools open your eyes! Who collected the evidence? Who sent it off the lab for testing? Anderson! Why do I surround myself with idiots?_

John had been furious though. He had demanded Lestrade go back to that house himself, try again! Sherlock had been unable to hide his smile. Poor John. Unable to let it go. Unable to give up. Lestrade had kindly explained to his friend that the evidence at that house was long gone, the house had so many finger prints over it now, so many different people's DNA, it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. John had got upset, on Sherlock’s behalf, apparently, swearing and shouting. And then, he had got annoyed with Sherlock, accused him of not caring, or not wanting to find his own rapist. So, Sherlock had taken his leave of the others, and gone to his room, hoping for some peace and quiet. All he had found was sleep, and yet another nightmare. And more screaming before he had woken up. And John had been there.

He had been there the two mornings since too. 

It seemed that no matter how agitated John became with Sherlock and his attitude, he still kept coming back. It was... interesting.

Sherlock moved into the living room. His head was so full of different thoughts, he didn't know what to concentrate on first. He checked his phone, laying where he had left it on the table. Nothing.

Boring.

He needed more news. Something to disappear into. Another killing would do, or even another...

He paused. Something deep inside of him was stirring. He swallowed. 

_Rape._ The word was rape. Couldn't he bring himself to even think the word now? He was pathetic.

He pulled his laptop towards him, and with a yawn, opened it.

A message appeared on the screen.

“New mail received.”

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. This was it. Something new to think about. 

He loaded up the message at once, and began to read:

_“Hello Mr. Holmes,  
Nice work. You've got into my brain, haven't you? Think you know me inside out? Well, I was thinking it was time for me to change my old routine anyway. My sponsor has given me suggestions. I can collect business cards from more than just Travel Lodges, Mr. Holmes. And the thrill is in the chase, never the capture. You know that right? So many are afraid of the great unknown. It excites me. I revel in it. Do you? Who will it be this time? Ready, steady go.  
Always yours gratefully,  
Your loyal fan.”_

Sherlock read it again. And then a third time. This man, he was young. Younger than Sherlock, by the style of his writing. There was a childish quality. It made it all very fascinating. And they certainly were entering unknown territory. If the killer was no longer following the pattern laid out for him by his “sponsor,” then anything could now happen. And yes, Sherlock was excited. And rejuvenated.

He quickly picked up his phone, and made a call.

“Lestrade?” He snapped, after a few rings. “Can you find out for me which hotels, other than Travel Lodges, are running those business card competition? What? No, just an idea. I'm fine! Absolutely fine. Can you just do it, Lestrade? Good. Talk to you later.”

He cancelled the call and went back to staring at his screen.

Sherlock read one word repeatedly. “Sponsor.” He frowned. So, Moriarty was involved. And giving the Butcher advice and, probably, money. Jim's latest client. Good. Sherlock enjoyed locking horns with Jim. The results were always enjoyable, to say the least. 

And he could put aside his own problems, once more, send them to the back of his mind. Where he liked them.

Sherlock wondered again how the killer would change his methods. It would not be a massive departure, this killer's mind would not be able to cope with that, and Moriarty would be aware of that. The killer would be caught easily if there was to much of a change. Even Lestrade would be able to catch him. No, it would be subtle, small. But the changes would be there, and they would keep the game fresh.

_Bring them on._

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock closed his laptop, glowered to himself, and then turned to face the still sleepy John, who had just made it out of Sherlock's room. He was dressed, but looked disheveled, and, if Sherlock was honest, a mess.

“Morning, John.”

“What time is it?” John asked him, rubbing his eyes.

“Just after eight,” Sherlock informed him. “Friday morning.” He saluted. “Happy Friday.”

John eyed Sherlock cautiously. “You seem chipper this morning.”

Sherlock's smile faltered.

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” John replied, hastily. “I'm just a tad surprised, is all.”

Sherlock opened his laptop again, and began to load up his web page.

“Surprised?” He replied. “Why?”

John hesitated. Sherlock knew what was coming.

“You were screaming again last night.”

“Was I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

John hated these kind of exchanges. They always meant Sherlock wasn't in the mood to talk. And that usually signalled one thing. Trouble.

He tried again. “Was it the same nightmare again?”

Sherlock didn't reply. He was typing, engrossed in his work.

John frowned.

“Sherlock, answer me.”

Sherlock slammed down the lid and swung around in his chair.

“Yes,” he stormed. “Yes, it was the same nightmare, but with some subtle differences this time that I really don't want to go into. Happy now?”

John nodded. “Long corridor, walking past doors, door appears at the end of the corridor, you go though and bad things happen.” He paused. “Right?”

Sherlock's eyes were flaming. “Sounds just about perfect,” he drawled. “So, we've covered my dream. All done.”

John glowered. “What was new this time? What was different.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

_He saw John with his throat slashed, blood pouring from the wound. He saw John dying._

“Nothing,” Sherlock told him. “Nothing important.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. John knew he was hiding something. He wondered why.

“Sherlock,” John said, finally. “What if the dream is trying to tell you something? I mean, what if your mind is trying to tell you, through these dreams, that you're doing something wrong?”

Sherlock was amused. “Is that your professional opinion, Doctor Watson?”

He didn't even try to hide the taunting in his tone, and the sound of it angered John.

“You know,” he snapped, “You shouldn't be embarrassed because you opened up to me. Crying doesn't make you weak, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stopped. “I'm sorry, have we changed the subject?”

“You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I know.”

“And you shouldn't be ashamed.”

“I'm not.”

John let out a loud sigh. _Fine. Whatever._ He was tired, and fed up. He had been interrupted by Sherlock's screams in the middle of the night, again, and had wanted to be close to his friend, hopefully showing Sherlock, on some level, that somebody was there for him. Whether Sherlock chose to ignore it or not, John knew he was far from being all right. He just wished he could make Sherlock let go, like he had that night, but Sherlock seemed to be going in the opposite direction now. And John had no idea how to get through to him.

“I'm going to meet Sarah for breakfast,” he announced. “I'll see you later.”

Sherlock didn't reply, he just kept typing.

John nodded. 

_Right then. If that's how it's going to be._

Just as he got the door, Sherlock suddenly said, quickly:

“Are you going to tell her that you kissed me?”

John froze. He had not been expecting that.

“What?” 

Sherlock glanced over at him.

“Are you going to tell your girlfriend that you kissed me three nights ago?”

“She's not my girlfriend!” John said, indignantly. He took a deep breath. “I mean, no, I won't be telling her about that.”

“Why?”

“Because it didn't mean anything!”

Sherlock was amused. 

“I see.”

John wasn't.

“What do you _see?”_

“That you want it to be our little secret.” He gestured. “I understand.”

John was completely thrown. “Sherlock,” he began, carefully, “that was just me trying to be there for you, comfort you because,” he broke off, uncertain, “because you were upset.”

“So, it didn't mean anything?”

“No.”

“Do you always kiss people when you are comforting them?” he inquired dryly, as he was typing again. “Really John, I do think you can give people the wrong idea.”

John shook his head. “Do you want it to mean something?” he asked Sherlock. He was so confused now. “Is that what you are saying?”

Sherlock regarded him then. “You've made it very clear it meant nothing, John.”

John frowned. “Well, it did mean _something._ It wasn't as if I...”

Sherlock was actually smiling now. “Goodbye John. Mustn't keep the lady waiting, must you?”

John didn't like Sherlock poking fun at him. Not like this. Not considering everything they had been though. It was cold, cruel and so typically Sherlock. And John was not impressed.

“I really am just one big joke to you, aren't I, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn't reply.

“Thanks for nothing,” John blurted out, and opened the door. Just as he was walking out, he stopped at the last second, turned and snapped; “Don't you go out on your own.” And then he banged the door shut behind him.

Sherlock chuckled. Still, despite his annoyance, John could not stop fussing. He was like a mother hen. It was quite sweet, if Sherlock was honest. With one more glance at the closed door, he left his laptop. He'd not been typing anything interesting anyway, so he went back to his bedroom, to get dressed.

XXX

John let the front door slam behind him. He glanced back.

_That went well._

He hadn't wanted to go out like this. He looked a state. Heaven knew what Sarah would think when she saw him. His could- be girlfriend had been a big comfort for him this past week. She had never asked too many questions, never wanted to know about what had happened, or why he was always so worried about Sherlock these days. That was thing about Sarah. She was a good listener, And, she had always wanted to know more about John than Sherlock, not the way around. And now, that fact was a big help for him.

He knew Sherlock was embarrassed about that night. Not just the kiss, but also the tears, the pleading, and simply the fact that he had finally shown, in that wretched moment, how much he needed John in his life. It wasn't normal for Sherlock, and now his friend didn't know how to deal with it.

He wrapped his arms around himself. It was cold, freezing in fact, and he had forgotten all about his coat. He frowned, it wasn't as if he was about to go back in for it. He'd never hear the end of it. 

He's just have to cope without.

He turned around, ready to make the short trip to Sarah's flat, and almost bumped straight into a man walking in the other direction.

“Sorry,” John muttered politely.

“No problem,” the young man replied.

John glanced at the man. He was in his early twenties, quite boyish looking, nice hair, and even nicer clothes. John had no idea why the man had caught his attention, but it had.

He realized, with some pleasure, that he really had learned from Sherlock that everyone was interesting. Everyone should catch your eye. Because you never did know.

He walked on.

XXX

Sherlock was back in his living room, sitting at his table once more, only now fully dressed and washed. He did feel better for it, it was true what they said.

 _For a change._ He smiled.

He picked up his phone again.

A new text had arrived.

He hoped it was from John.

He read it, and frowned.

_“Am still in Brussels. Meetings dragging on. Call me if you need me. I am concerned. Mycroft.”_

Mycroft concerned? Oh yes. About preventing a scandal, obviously. Little brother raped? How unfortunate.

Sherlock deleted the message. 

_“Prick.”_ He snarled. “Did I ask for your help? Leave me alone, Mycroft.”

Putting the displeasure of receiving a text from his brother behind him, he stared down at the phone hesitantly. Should he call John? He could apologize, get him back there. They could spend the day together. Even go out for a walk. Sherlock wanted to leave the house, he was suffering from cabin fever. But he had promised John. So he'd stay in and wait for him, and then they could go somewhere, the two of them. Be more like old times. 

Before Anderson...

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. _No. Must not think about him. Or what happened in that damned nightmare. Just a dream. Can't hurt him. He can't touch me again._

He was startled out of his thoughts when his phone beeped again. Another text.

This time, it must be from John...

_No._

_“You have more mail, my dear. Open it, please.”_

Sherlock went very cold. He mouthed the words, “My dear.”

_Moriarty._

It was no surprise Moriarty knew his mobile number. Sherlock could find out any number he wanted, after all. And Moriarty was his match.

_“Wake up, Sherlock.”_

With a sinking feeling deep inside, Sherlock once again opened up his laptop, and sure enough, there was a new email waiting for him. He opened it and read. What he saw there, it made his blood run cold.

_“Hello again,  
Ever stayed in a Marriott?   
Very nice. A lot posher than the Travel Lodge. I'm moving up in the world, Mr. Holmes. And I'm holding my latest Business Card. Not quite so random this time, this one has been chosen for me. But that’s the fun. You never know what’s coming next!  
Lets play a guessing game. Do the initials JW mean anything to you? And a doctor too! How very enticing!  
See you soon!  
Yours expectantly, Your loyal fan.”_

Sherlock stared at the screen.

_Oh God._

He should have expected this. 

_John._

Without another thought, he grabbed his mobile and his coat, and ran for the door. He knew where Sarah lived. He'd go there. As he flew, painfully, down the stairs, he didn't even pause when Mrs. Hudson called after him, pleading with him to calm down.

He threw on a pair of shoes, not even sure if they were his, opened the front door, and ran.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock charged down Baker Street, causing people to nip quickly out of his way or be barged aside. He ignored their accusing, and extremely unimportant, glares and curses. Only John mattered, and Sherlock knew his friend could be, right at that moment, in grave danger. How could he have been so stupid? Of course the Butcher, after a kind suggestion by his sponsor, would target someone close to Sherlock next. It was all part of the game. It was the next logical step after choosing an unknown victim simply because the poor sod had shared Sherlock's initials. It should have been obvious, the Butcher had become so much braver, so much more daring. He must have been gagging to raise the stakes and bring the game to Sherlock directly.

Sherlock couldn't help but be slightly impressed by the man's gall.

_But he'll regret it if he harms one hair on John's head._

Sherlock frowned. What was Sarah's address again? He must remember it, he had memorised it before hadn't he? He thought hard. 

Marstin Street?

No. Morstan Street. 35A Morstan Street.

That's where he had to get to. And quickly.

Sherlock ran.

_Be alright, John. Just be alright._

Sherlock couldn't get last night's dream out of his mind. What if that had been some kind of prophecy? What if the dream really could come true. Sherlock swore under his breath. When did he ever believe such nonsense? That type of paranoia was for idiots, not for someone like him. What kind of warning could a dream give? It was a coincidence. Nothing more. And no one, least of all Jim Moriarty, was going to slash John Watson's throat. 

Sherlock gritted his teeth. No. That was not going to happen. He wouldn't let it.

He paused for breath, hands on his hips. His body was now aching all over, complaining at him for the rough treatment. Considering what he had been through, he couldn't truly expect to be able to run like this. It hurt so much. But he didn't want to stop. If he lost John because of his own failure, how would he ever come to terms with that? If it turned out that he had failed John physically as well as mentally? Because this should not have happened. Sherlock should have seen this coming. He should have warned John. But no, he basically forced him out of the house thanks to his own embarrassment.

He set off again, having allowed himself a very short respite. Not much further now. His thoughts turned to Mycroft, and, just this once, he hoped that Mycroft was ahead of him. He glowered. His brother had better be sticking to their agreement. He could even still be having Sarah's home watched. Sherlock, much to his own chagrin, suddenly found himself praying that that was the case. After all, Mycroft had attempted an apology when he'd had Sherlock alone, for leaving him to fend for himself _that_ night. Sherlock had curtly informed Mycroft that he was no longer a child and what had happened to him was his own look out. And then, they had come to a decision together. Sherlock could only hope that Mycroft had taken extra precautions. Maybe he would, shockingly, save the day. Sherlock was actually taken aback to find himself willing this to happen. It was such a huge U-Turn on his part, it caught him unawares. If it did the trick, so be it. He would even thank Mycroft for his assistance.

 _Anything to keep John safe._

He came to a sudden halt. This was it. 35A Morston Street. Wasting not another second, he hurried forward, and rapped loudly on the door.

There was no response.

Sherlock knocked again, even more impatiently, taking out his frustration on the door baring his way. Still, there was no activity inside. 

“John!” he yelled, loudly. “Sarah!”

Nothing.

He shouted again. “John!” he frowned. “It's me. Open the door if you're in there!”

He was greeted with only deathly silence. He rested his head against the door, trying to push the overwhelming panic back down. He had to think clearly. This didn't have to mean the worst. Where else could they be?

There was no other option. He'd have to force his way in, and look for clues as to his friend's location. It was all for the best. He was sure Sarah would understand. And, to be honest, even if she didn't, he didn't actually care too much.

He took a step back, and then charged into the door with his shoulder. It held firm.

He ran at the door again. This time, he felt the lock loosen. One more good shoulder barge should do the trick...

“What do you think you are doing?”

Sherlock froze. He glanced to his left to find an elderly woman peering at him, over her rimmed glasses. She was grasping a Tesco shopping bag in her right hand, looking at him with a mixture of puzzlement and anger. 

“Sorry?” he asked her, agitated by her interruption.

She was watching him accusingly. “Are you trying to break into that building?” 

Sherlock paused. He looked at the door again, as if how this whole activity must have looked to any other person had suddenly just dawned on him. And it had. 

He regarded the woman, this time with disdain. “The flat I am trying to gain entry to happens to belong to a very good friend of mine,” he told her. “If you would be so kind as to mind your own business?”

She glowered at him. “I'll call the police.”

He smiled. “Excellent. If you could ask for a Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he clasped his hands together, “I'm sure he'd be happy to sort all this out. Now, if you'd excuse me...”

She was not satisfied. “I really don't think...”

Sherlock had had enough. Politeness was clearly not working.

“Tell me,” he enquired of her. “Are you as stupid as you look?”

She was stunned, and not very impressed. “W-What?” She stammered.

He nodded. “Thought so.” He leaned closer, and she recoiled away from him. 

“Now, I'll explain this carefully, so that you'll understand. I've lost my friend. He and I, we fought this morning, I actually drove him out, and he came here, to his girlfriend’s. And now, he's in danger. And if anything happens to him, it will all be my fault, and actually, from this moment on, yours too. Think of that tomorrow when you read about the latest _murder_ in the papers!” He tossed his head. “So, if you wouldn’t mind getting away from here, and leaving me in place to do what I do best. Unless of course you have some very smart and helpful suggestion to help me get into this flat quicker, which I seriously doubt.” He gestured. “Therefore, Madam, if you could, basically, go away!”

She was speechless. It was clearer that the poor old woman was wondering if he was joking.

_If she didn't go on her way soon, she'd soon find out._

She seemed to hesitate for a second, and then finally, with a polite nod, began to move away. Sherlock let out a sigh, and then returned his attention to the stubborn door. He prepared to charge against it again, when a very meek voice suddenly spoke up.

“Excuse me?”

She was back. Sherlock was almost at the end of his tether. Clenching his fists harshly, he then turned and gave her a deathly glare.

“Yes?” he snapped.

She smiled nervously. “This girlfriend of your friend’s, the one in danger...”

“What about her?” he retorted.

“Well,” she said, very quietly, “is that Sarah Sawyer?”

Sherlock blinked. How did she know Sarah?

As if she had heard his question, she answered, “Lovely girl. Helps me with my shopping sometimes. I live just over there, you see. Across the road, in number 24.”

Sherlock was stunned. He certainly had not expected the old woman to actually be able to help.

“Do you know where she might be?” he breathed.

“She likes to have breakfast at Moe’s Café,” she told him, and pointed down the street. “It's that way, just keep going straight. It's only about a five minutes walk.”

He looked up the street, and then when he turned back to her, he was beaming.

“Thank you, Mrs-whatever-your-name-is. God bless you.” He kissed her cheek.

And then, he was off again, leaving the unnamed lady to stare after him, dumbfounded.

As Sherlock rushed in the direction she had pointed, he only had one thought.

_Please don't let me be too late. Please John, just be okay._

XXX

At last, he could see the café in question. He doubled over, gasping for air, and holding his stomach tightly for comfort. Everything hurt. His throat was so sore, it was painful for him to just to breath. He knew John would scold him for all this running about, after what he's been through, but Sherlock wasn't complaining. All he wanted to know was that John was safe. He'd go home and rest then. Let Mrs Hudson make him a nice cup of tea. He'd be happy to.

He moved closer. And could see Sarah and John sitting outside café, quite happy and apparently unconcerned. They were both sipping coffee. 

Huge relief washed over him. John was okay.

_Thank God._

He watched them for a moment, saw Sarah throw her head back and laugh, while John smiled affectionately. He saw Sarah reach out to take John's hand, as he was staring down at the table, obviously unhappy. Sherlock wondered why. He wished he could hear their discussion, but it was best for him to stay away. Give John his privacy. He cared for Sarah, a lot, and although Sherlock didn’t really understand his reasons, he did respect them.

And besides, he didn't want to answer a lot of difficult questions as to what he was doing there.

Just as he was pondering his next move, he saw them. Two men, now very interested in him as much as the oblivious couple, were sitting in a car, not far from John and Sarah. The car was a Mercedes. Sherlock had seen it, and them, before. 

Sherlock smiled triumphantly to himself.

_You need to hire better shadows, Mycroft._

But he was pleased to see them. John was being tailed, which also meant he was being protected. These men definitely worked for his brother. He knew that for certain. Not only because he had seen them companying Mycroft on more than one occasion, but also due to their unimaginative, and, if he was honest, simply boring style of surveillance.

Typical Mycroft.

But this was a good thing. A very good thing. Sherlock could go home and rest, and John would be safe. And Sherlock would see him later, and everything would be fine. The detective might even apologise to his friend.

Maybe.

Just as he'd prepared himself to turn and go, and given the two men in the Mercedes a cheerful wave, he was stopped in his tracks, when he heard Sarah's excited voice.

“Sherlock?”

_Damn. He thought he'd been stood a safe distance away. He was sure he'd been out of eyesight. Now, this was going to be awkward._

And now, she was calling him again, creating quite an exhibition of herself, and waving madly.

“Sherlock! Hey, Sherlock!”

John was looking over now. And, even from further away, Sherlock could make out the disapproval on his face. 

_Oh dear._

What choice did he have? He couldn't make out he hadn't heard her, it must have been obvious, even to them, that he had reacted to her calls. Nothing else for it, he'd have to go up to them and make small talk. But he wouldn't let on as to why he was there. There was no point worrying John with the news that a deranged killer was after him. Again. And besides, he was being watched by Mycroft's men and, despite being unimaginative, Sherlock felt that they were better protection for John and Sarah than he was right then, considering his current state. 

So he made up his mind, as he approached them with a cautious smile, to “blag” it.

“Morning Sherlock,” Sarah said to him, with a welcoming smile. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you Sarah,” he returned. “Nice morning, isn't it?”

He glanced at John.

John was watching him, a frown on his face. His friend was clearly uncomfortable in his presence, and just a little bit surprised to find him there.

“What's up,” he asked him. “Has something happened?”

Sherlock shook his head hurriedly. Too hurriedly, and John raised his head, his frown becoming accusing.

“Everything's fine,” Sherlock told him, with a wave of his hand. “I thought I'd just go out for a walk, that's all.”

John glared at him. “You thought you'd go out for a walk,” he echoed. “Right.”

He turned to Sarah.

“Would you mind excusing me for a moment? I need to talk to Sherlock, just for a minute?”

She shrugged. “Sure, no problem.”

But she was watching Sherlock with extra interest now, clearly perplexed by his sudden appearance, and John's strange behaviour.

Sherlock suddenly found himself wondering, with a sinking feeling, just how much did she know?

John pulled him out of his musing, by taking hold of his arm and pulling him away from Sarah. When they were out of range, he leaned forward, and hissed angrily in Sherlock’s ear.

“What's going on?” He seemed almost outraged. “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock immediately got on the defensive.

“I was just passing. Didn't know that was a crime.”

John chuckled disbelievingly. “Oh yeah, right. You following me now, Sherlock? Keeping tabs. Don't trust me any more, is that it? Well, as I'm sure you have deduced, I'm having breakfast with a friend. Why don't you write that down on your website?” He paused. He was so angry. “You might have to look up the word _friend,_ first though.”

Sherlock stared at him. That had hurt. He glanced away.

John knew he had gone too far. Already, his anger was disappearing. More kindly, he said, “Look, what's wrong? I told you not leave the house on your own, Sherlock.” And then, “And why the hell are you wearing my shoes?”

Sherlock was startled. _What?_

He looked down at his feet.

_Oh._

_Whoops._

_Not important._

Sherlock put aside the issue about the shoes. That was inconsequential, considering everything else that was occurring at that moment. What he did know though, was that he felt like a naughty schoolboy. Sometimes, he wondered just exactly who John thought he was, to Sherlock? Sherlock never took orders, not even from his own brother. Why would his friend assume he would listen to him?

“I'm not helpless, John,” he told him, agitated. “I am still capable of taking care of myself.”

John glanced down. “I know that Sherlock, It’s just that,” he paused, hesitating, before adding, “It's just that I worry about you.”

Sherlock blinked.

“You _worry?_ ” he repeated, quietly. “Even after, this morning, the way I...” He was again having trouble choosing his words. This problem was become quite irritating. “Even after our argument?”

John couldn't help but smile. “Yes, Sherlock. Even though you can be the most annoying man on the planet, I _still_ worry about you!”

Sherlock suddenly felt very awkward. “I see,” he muttered. “Well, that's... that's good.” He nodded toward Sarah. “She looks well,” he hesitated. “Did you mention to her about how you and I...”

“NO!”

Sherlock stopped. He was taken aback. “Oh.” And then, “Right.”

John shook his head in amusement. When would his friend learn what was suitable polite conversation while in public? “Did you actually want something?”

Sherlock frowned. John should know the truth. He needed to know that he was in danger, but this was not the place to discuss it. Where anyone could be listening.

“I had another email,” Sherlock whispered.

John closed his eyes for a second. _Oh God._

“From your rapist?”

Sherlock flinched. He brushed his hair back, awkwardly.

“From the Butcher.”

John raised an eyebrow. _Okay._ “Isn't that the same person?”

 _Damn. So stupid._

Feeling harassed, Sherlock was desperate to keep on topic.

“This isn't about me. It's about you.”

John sighed. He suddenly felt very ill. _Now what?_

“What do you mean, about me?”

Sherlock looked around. It seemed, to him, that far too many people were taking an interest in their conversation. It was not a good idea to discuss this, in broad view of everyone.

He touched John's shoulder. “Go back to Sarah's, and stay there until I call.” He jerked his head toward the parked Mercedes. “Those men are watching you. They work for Mycroft. They will intervene should anything happen.” He couldn't help but roll his eyes. “It's what my brother pays them to do.”

“What about you?”

“I'll go back home. Contact Lestrade, and tell him the latest developments. We'll keep you hidden, for now. Out of harms way.” He glared. “Just until I can work out who this bastard is.”

John was unimpressed with this.

“I can't just run and hide, Sherlock. And leave you alone. Not if some psychotic murderer has targeted me to get to you.” He grabbed Sherlock's arm again. “Because, that's what this is all about isn't it? I'm going to be his next victim, right?” He was sweating now, scared. He saw flashes of the latest body, beaten, bloodied and ripped to shreds. Was he going to end up like that too?

“No,” Sherlock snapped, as if reading his thoughts. “I won't let him do anything to you, John. But you and Sarah, you have to go right now.”

“And if he knows where Sarah lives? If he's followed me there...” He gestured to the young lady, now watching them intently. “I'm not going to put Sarah in danger again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was becoming impatient.

“You'll both be okay. Mycroft's men, over there, they will watch you, and if anything untoward happens, they'll get involved. They will keep you safe. That's why Mycroft is having you followed.” He swallowed. “He promised he would keep you safe, and leave me alone. To figure this out myself. A shadow for you, but not for me, we agreed.”

John was staring at him.

“So, Big Brother is watching me, but not you? You need watching more than me, Sherlock!”

“Well, clearly, I don't!” Sherlock threw back. “This man, whoever he is, he doesn't want a big fight, no, he won't put himself into harm's way. He likes it to be kept secret, a surprise. That's why he picked his victims randomly and then waited for the perfect opportunity to strike. When they were alone, and open for attack.” He frowned. “The Butcher sent me that email, knew I'd react, and go to you. Whatever he's planning, it will not involve a big confrontation, where he is outnumbered. He likes it one on one, trust me.” He grasped John's shoulder. “I swear, you'll be fine.”

John believed him. He nodded.

“And what about you?”

“Don't worry about me.”

John snorted.

Sherlock sighed.

“Please, John. Trust me.” Sherlock pleaded him. “Now, go.”

With one last concerned glance at Sherlock, John rushed back to Sarah, and whispered in her ear. She looked surprised, and then eyed Sherlock with suspicion. She shook her head once, but was already starting to gather her things. John then turned, and nodded goodbye to his friend.

Sherlock smiled back, grimly. 

He watched as John and Sarah collected their bags, and left some money for their breakfasts, despite not actually having had a chance to eat them. And then, they were heading away quickly, back up the street Sherlock had just walked down. 

After a few moments, Sherlock saw the Mercedes pull away, and follow them slowly down the same street. One of them was on his phone, to fill Mycroft in on the latest developments no doubt. This pleased Sherlock. He would have to put faith in his brother now, faith that he and his people could keep John safe.

Sherlock was satisfied. He turned, and began to walk gingerly back to Baker Street. No need to rush now, better to take it easy. He would take a bath upon his return, ease his aching limbs. And then, he would get to work. He would find this man. No one threatened John. He would ensure the bastard paid for his error.

XXX

Some time later, Sherlock arrived back at 221B Baker Street. His head was jumbled with thoughts as he placed the key in the lock and turned it. He had let John down again, upset him yet again, but still John was concerned about him, didn't want him left alone. Even when it was John being threatened, his worries were still for Sherlock. It was most curious. 

Sherlock regretted hurting John's feelings. He always felt guilty in the end, but it was as if he couldn't help himself. And now, there was also that kiss to think about. That strange, intriguing kiss that Sherlock just could not forget. What had that actually meant to John? Why had he kissed him? And how did he look back on it now? With embarrassment? Did his friend wish it had never happened? So many questions. So few answers.

He pushed open the door. He wished John was with him now. He missed him. But he was beyond certain that the butcher was watching their home, and to keep John away hopefully meant keeping him safe. And besides, Sherlock usually ended up hurting John himself when he was with him, so this would keep John safe from him temporarily too.

It confused Sherlock. He wanted John with him, but when he was there, he hurt him.

Weird.

Sherlock stepped inside, and instantly very nearly tripped over a large object. He looked down, and froze in shock.

_No._

He had almost tripped over Mrs Hudson. She was lying on the floor, not moving. She had a deep cut on her forehead, and her throat was bruised. And there were finger marks.

Someone had throttled her. Someone had left the dear woman for dead.

Fury hit him.

He looked around. He could see hide nor hair of anybody. Why had he come to Baker Street? Had he wanted Sherlock out of the way so he could attack Mrs Hudson all along? Had she been his chosen victim, not John? He put these thoughts aside. His concerns could only be for the prone woman at his feet. He crouched down, and checked her for signs of life. She was still breathing, thank God. But for how long? She needed an ambulance, and quickly.

He reached in his pocket for his mobile – and then he heard a scuffling noise, close by.

He looked up sharply.

_Too late._

A man was standing over him. Sherlock didn't recognise him. He was young. So young. He smiled at Sherlock happily.

“Hi there.”

Sherlock went to stand, but the man was quicker. The blow came out of nowhere, and he was hit with something large and hard. His head ached. He went down. He was still conscious, though dazed, when the man whispered in his ear. 

“Shame you didn't bring John back with you. I was so sure you would. Still, I can wait.”

Sherlock heard him move, knew another blow was imminent. And there was nothing he could do to defend himself.

He saw the object aiming for his head. And then, everything went black.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

He couldn't move.

That was the first realisation that Sherlock arrived at as he slowly came round. He moaned quietly, his head aching. What happened? Why was his head killing him? And why couldn't he move?

He opened his eyes painfully, tried to wriggle unsuccessfully, and then glanced down. Ah. So that explained that then. His wrists were bound. He was tied tightly to a chair. And it wasn't just his wrists. He was tied by his ankles too. He was held fast, completely trapped. He also had something tied around his neck. Either there to strangle or gag him, whatever was required. At least there was one good thing, he noted – apart from his pounding headache, he was apparently not hurt.

He struggled again, trying to loosen the ropes binding his wrists. It was useless. 

He looked around, blinking, trying to clear his vision. Trapped in his own living room, in his best friend's chair. It really was quite an embarrassing situation.

He closed his eyes tightly.

There was something he should be remembering, something had happened...

His eyes shot open, and he flinched from the pain.

_Oh God. The Butcher. In his house._

There was something else.

_Mrs Hudson. Lying on the ground. Hurt. Dying._

He renewed his struggle with interest, yelling out his outrage at his hopeless situation.

“I'd calm down, if I were you.” The voice was mocking, cruel. “You'll hurt yourself.”

Sherlock looked up. His eyes narrowed as he took in the young man now standing in the doorway.

He was merely a boy. No older than nineteen or twenty, Sherlock estimated. He had unruly, long blond hair, but he had obviously tried to style it, though failing. He cared about his appearance then. He was wearing expensive clothes, but didn't come from money, judging by his ill-fitted suit. Not used to wearing designer clothes. Perhaps he had a high paid job in finance in the city? Or, more likely, had come into money by more unscrupulous means.

With the aid of a certain “sponsor.”

Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the other man's shoes. They were very polished, even shiny. Looking at the marks on his fingers, he cleaned them himself. No. He scrubbed them. Often. Slight OCD maybe? He was certainly obsessed with his routines, Sherlock had already deduced that. 

And right then, this obsessive stranger was looking very proud of himself.

And why shouldn't he? This had all been a trap. And Sherlock had fallen into it beautifully. 

The young man smiled warmly.

“Sorry about the knock on the head,” he stated. He was softly spoken, his accent posh. Some would say plummy. “I can get you a pain killer, if you'd like?”

Sherlock didn't react. He just stared at the boy.

The young man rubbed his hands together. For the first time, Sherlock saw that he was toying with his Jack Knife, enjoying the feel of it. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off of the blade. “I guess that's a no then. How about a glass of water? You must be thirsty. You were out for a good twenty minutes. I was beginning to worry that I'd hit you too hard.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Still he didn't reply. He much preferred just to watch, and wait.

_Wait for the opportune moment._

Because, there had to be a way out of this. There had to be.

The young man pointed. “You're bleeding.”

Sherlock swallowed. He could already feel the blood dripping down the side of his face, from yet another wound on the top of his head.

_At least it wasn't the fireplace this time._

He frowned. What had hit him? The heavy door stop? No. Not the right shape. A brick, from outside? No. Too heavy for the boy to swing with the power he'd shown. So what then?

He tilted his head.

“The picture frame,” he murmured, almost to himself.

The boy's ears pricked up. “Huh?”

“You hit me with Mrs Hudson's picture frame.” He glanced towards the door. “The picture of the Mary Rose, that hangs in her lounge. You were lucky you didn't kill me.”

The boy blinked. “Who?”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Mrs Hudson. The lady who owns this house. You strangled her downstairs, and left her to die.”

The boy shrugged. “Oh. Her.”

Sherlock could feel the anger sweeping through him. He fought to contain it. Losing his temper would not aid his predicament. He needed to ensure he was thinking clearly. No unnecessary concerns.

“Is she alive?” he asked, calmly.

The other man shrugged his shoulders. 

“You don't even care,” Sherlock noted.

The Butcher smiled toothily. “Of course not.” He stepped closer. “She's not a part of my game, she just got in my way. Too bad for her.”

“Too bad for you.”

The boy grinned. He was practically oozing self confidence. If Sherlock played him right, his arrogance could be his downfall.

“What's your name?” Sherlock enquired.

The boy laughed. “The Great Detective is supposed to know!”

Sherlock nodded. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Vern,” the boy answered. “My name is Vern.”

“Nice to meet you, Vern.” Sherlock inclined his head politely. “My name is -”

Vern laughed loudly. Sherlock cringed. It was the first true sign of the insanity hiding behind this young man's bright, staring blue eyes. And the sound set his teeth on edge.

Sherlock actually recoiled against his bonds when Vern suddenly flew towards him. Grasped the chair arms, he leaned over Sherlock, smiling broadly.

“I know exactly who you are, Mister Sherlock Holmes! I've heard all about you! My sponsor is quite a fan of yours.”

Sherlock sighed. “Your sponsor?” He repeated. “Jim, you mean?”

Vern's eyes went wide. “You may call him by his first name. I would never dare. He's Mr. Moriarty, and he's a hero to me.”

“Nice kind of hero. But then, he is psychotic as you are, isn't he?”

Vern didn't hesitate. He struck Sherlock hard, snapping his head to one side. He then wagged a finger in Sherlock's face.

“Don't you ever insult Mr. Moriarty to me again, Sherlock Holmes. That's your only warning. Understand?”

“Perfectly.”

The young man turned his back on Sherlock then, clearly trying to control the hate and rage that lay just under the surface.

 _Nice check on his self-control, Sherlock. Or lack of it._

Sherlock took his time before he spoke again.

“So, what is the next game?”

Vern slammed his fist on to the table beside Sherlock. 

“Wrong! You're not meant to ask me that!” He was babbling now, pacing the room. “You're meant to figure it out. You're the big, clever detective, aren't you? A consulting detective?”

Sherlock couldn't help but be startled. He eyed the man, slightly alarmed. This boy certainly was insane. In fact, he was holding on to his sanity by a tiny thread. What an exciting find for Jim this boy must have been. He could just imagine Moriarty's delight in discovering him. How he would have loved taking this boy under his wing, teaching him, helping him. Creating his own little serial killer. How many others were there? How many other kids had Moriarty got his claws into? It was sick, but, Sherlock couldn't help but think, God, it was clever.

Vern had waited long enough. He grabbed the helpless Sherlock by his hair and ripped his head back.

_No. Don't. Not like this. Not like... him._

Sherlock swallowed.

Vern noticed.

“You don't like being grabbed like this, do you?” He asked, softly. “I wonder why?”

He shook Sherlock hard, like a rag doll. Sherlock was shocked by the boy's strength. He shouldn't have been. He was slight, but also very tall. And he had already overpowered four people, two of those being perfectly healthy men. He gazed up at his tormentor, unsure of what to say, should he anger Vern more. Vern could snap his neck like a twig, and Sherlock was very aware that, in that moment, he had no way of defending himself.

“Answer my question,” Vern snarled.

Sherlock thought back. 

_Oh yes. He asked about my work._

“Sorry,” Sherlock replied, swiftly. “Yes, I'm a detective.”

The boy released him. He backed off slightly, leaning against their sofa. “Good. Glad you're paying attention to me, Mr. Holmes.” He crossed his arms, and stared intently, at Sherlock. “You're not how I imagined.”

Sherlock blinked, trying to compose himself. He really was in a lot of pain, and having a killer questioning him was not assisting his concentration.

“How did you imagine me?” He asked.

“Older.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

Vern's smile was of pure evil. He placed Sherlock's knife down on the table beside them. “Oh, I'm not disappointed.” He leaned closer, running a hand over Sherlock's leg. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach but what could he do? He was strapped there, at the bastard's mercy. And still, he didn't know what the sick freak wanted with him.

He decided to ask.

“You threatened my friend, John Watson.”

The smile widened. And Vern's hand moved lower. Sherlock was cringing, desperate to move away from him, but those damned ropes were too tight. 

_Get your hand off of me. Just leave me alone. Please._

“Yes, I know.” His voice was husky, lustful now. “That was fun.”

“Why send me that email?”

“To get your attention,” he gushed. “I wanted to meet you.”

His hand had nearly reached Sherlock's groin. The detective, his eyes now closed in disgust, was sweating.

“Stop,” Sherlock breathed. “Stop it.”

Vern blinked. He looked down at his hand, and then back up at Sherlock's panicked face.

“Am I bothering you, Detective?”

“Mildly,” came the strained reply.

Vern smirked. And then, the wandering hand was gone. Sherlock couldn't hide the sigh of relief. When he opened his eyes again, Vern was back at the doorway, gazing down the stairs.

“I hope the elusive Dr. Watson gets here soon.”

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Of course. That's what he wanted. John. He knew John would come back eventually. All he needed to do was wait.

“ John's out today. Won't be back for ages.”

“Like I said, I can wait.”

Sherlock's thoughts turned back to the poor woman, lying unconscious downstairs.

“Let my landlady go.”

“No,” he smirked. “Sorry.”

“But she'll die.”

Another shrug. “She's not important.”

That rage. He could feel it again. He bottled it back down. He would use it later. He would get the opportunity. Something would come. He just had to be patient.

“She doesn't deserve to die.”

“Who says?”

“I say.”

Vern glared at that. “You're not all powerful.”

“I'm not the one playing God,” Sherlock hissed. “You are.”

Vern threw back his head and laughed. 

“I prefer to compare myself to Satan.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Not too original.” 

Vern glowered. “No?” He held up a business card. Sherlock could easily see that it was John's. “Look at this. I'm branching out, mixing it up.”

“Did Moriarty instruct you to go after John?”

“Of course not.” He looked put out. “Mr. Moriarty doesn’t _tell_ me to do anything. All of this,” he gestured, “this is all my own work. He funds me and gives me his suggestions.” He paused. “I can still make mistakes. He doesn't.”

Sherlock smiled. “He made one.”

Vern glared. “He escaped your explosion, didn't he?” He pointed. “He outsmarted you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not my bomb.”

“It was your fault that it blew up!” Vern snapped. “John Watson was supposed to die that night, the whole plan was all laid out. You were going to be allowed to live.” He clenched his fists, and again, Sherlock could feel the panic rising. “I'll put it right for Mr Moriarty. Today. It's the least I can do after everything that he's done for me.”

Sherlock struggled again in his chair. “Leave John alone.”

Vern was delighted. It seemed Sherlock betraying his feelings regarding John excited him.

“Nah,” he replied, quietly. “I don't think so. He'll be back soon, won't he? Won't be too long now.” He leaned over Sherlock again. “And then, he's mine.”

Sherlock gave Vern a murderous look.

“If you touch him -” He began but Vern cut across him.

“Oh yeah, I'll touch him.” He bared his teeth. “I'll do a lot more than that too.” His smile was predatory. “Don't worry, you'll be able to watch, and encourage him though it.” He grabbed Sherlock's crotch. “After all, you'll know exactly what he's going through, won't you?” He leered, beginning to pull at Sherlock's belt, making his intention clear, and revelling in Sherlock's now obvious despair. “Or, so I've read.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see, he didn't want to know.

_Oh God. He's undoing my belt. He's going to touch me. He's going to -._

Suddenly, it wasn't Vern standing over him any more. All he could see was Anderson.

He tried to compose himself, to concentrate. He knew Anderson's wasn't there. He had to keep control. He couldn't give up now. John. John was in danger. He had to help him. Warn him somehow.

“It's okay,” Vern was purring, and Sherlock gasped as the sick man began to tug harder at his belt, and it came free. He then placed his hand down Sherlock's trousers, and Sherlock whimpered helplessly.

“I'm not angry,” the hated man was whispering. “I like it that people think The Butcher raped the great Sherlock Holmes. The public don't know, yet, but the cops, I bet it's all they talk about. And, once gossipers here the news, and it begins to spread, more and more people will know.” He leaned forward, lowering his hand further, reaching right down. Sherlock knew what he was looking for, and Sherlock pressed back, leaning as far back into the chair as possible, trying to avoid that damned hand.

“Someone is stopping those whisperings getting out of hand, for now.” Vern continued. “Don't know who or how, but apparently, threats are being made for anyone "in the know" to keep their mouths shut. Mr. Moriarty is quite frustrated that someone,very annoyingly, is pushing their weight around." He smiled. “Won't last though. Not with how quickly good news travels these days. Especially on the internet. Soon, everyone will believe that I stuck my large dick in your tight little virgin hole.” He grasped Sherlock's manhood and Sherlock, unable to stop himself, cried out. Vern laughed. “And,” he added, “I'll do the same to your boyfriend and then butcher him, right before your eyes.” He licked Sherlock's cheek. “Don't you think, as plans go, it's perfect?”

“But you didn't.” Sherlock forced out.

Vern shrugged. “Yeah, true.” He removed his hand, and watched as Sherlock sagged into his bonds. “But no one ever will know the truth.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. The hand was gone now. He'd survived. He had to hang on in there. He had to keep fighting. 

“Why not just kill me?” He offered. “Like you say, everyone will think you raped me. Notoriety that will last forever. Eternal fame. All for you.” He stared at Vern. “Kill me, right now. Not John.”

The evil man smiled nastily. “But this is what _you've_ pushed me too, Detective. To try out new projects, to keep things fresh, and exciting.” He picked up the knife again. “I want someone to watch me work. I want _you_ to watch.”

What could Sherlock say? He didn't know what to do.

But maybe, there was one chance...

“And what if I were to tell you something only me and one other man knows?”

Vern eyed him, waiting.

Sherlock continued. “I mean, if I were to tell you a very big, dark secret...”

“Like what?”

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock replied; “Like who actually raped me?”

Vern raised an eyebrow. “Go on?”

“I'll make a deal with you.”

“What deal?”

“I'll tell you who raped me, if you let Mrs Hudson get help, and promise to leave John alone.”

Vern seemed to be thinking it over. Sherlock held his breath.

“Well?” He urged, impatiently.

“I'd be happy to take you up on your deal, Sherlock,” Vern replied, after a beat.

Sherlock held his breath. _Please._

Vern walked towards Sherlock, again playing with the blade in his hands.

“But there is one problem,” he whispered. He put his lips against Sherlock's ear. “I don't give a _fuck_ who actually raped you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Vern laughed in his face.

_Last chance, all gone. It's over._

They both froze.

There was a noise, coming from downstairs. A key in the lock, and they was being turned. A door was opening.

Only one other person had a key.

Vern and Sherlock stared at one another.

They both knew.

“Sherlock?” a voice called. “Are you here?”

_John was home._

Sherlock started to scream, to shout, to yell a warning to his friend. Vern was quicker. He crossed the room in a heartbeat, and stuck his makeshift gag into Sherlock's mouth, cutting off his ability to make any noise. Breathing had also suddenly become an issue. All Sherlock could do was stare, wild eyed, up at his captor. Vern looked dizzy with excitement. He brought a shaky finger up and held it against his lips. The message was clear.

_Keep quiet. Be a good boy. Sit there and watch me brutally rape your best friend. Got a problem with that?_

Vern grinned. And then, he moved back, didn't make a sound, and waited behind the door.

“Sherlock?!” John called, the fear in his voice evident. “Sherlock, Mrs Hudson's been attacked! She's going to be okay, but I've called for help—”.

John raced in, eager to find his friend, to ensure Sherlock was safe and well. 

He stopped dead at the sight that greeted him.

“What the...?”

Sherlock tried to cry out, he struggled, pulling vainly at his bonds, and shaking the chair that kept him imprisoned from side to side. He moved his eyes towards Vern, hoping that John would see, that he would understand. 

And he did. He realised. And he swung round.

_Too late._

John was grabbed from behind, a rope tightening around his neck. He tried to fight, tried to focus on what was happening to him, focus on Sherlock, on anything. But, so quickly, he was finding it hard to breath. His air was being cut off so cruelly, so violently. He would pass out if this continued.

He was being pushed down, forced to his knees, by his unknown attacker. He was still being strangled. It _hurt._ Who was doing this? Was Sherlock there? Hadn't he seen him? He was aware of his hands being pinned behind his back, and he was being tied. He couldn't move, couldn't struggle.

Why was this happening? 

At last, at long last, the pressure on his throat was easing. He took in big gulps of air, still so light headed and dizzy thanks to the ferocious attack. And now, here he was tied up and pinned down.

And terrified.

Vern stared down hungrily at his soon to be next victim. Perfect. So frightened, so helpless, so at his mercy. He was going to enjoy this.

He would put on a good show for his audience.

Vern looked up, smiling evilly at Sherlock.

Sherlock could feel his eyes watering. He could see John was trembling. He shook his head hopelessly at Vern. As if it would do any good.

“Sherlock?” John gasped out. “What?”

“Don't you worry, John.” Vern told him, grabbing for him again, groping and stroking him through his clothes. “I'll take good care of you.”

“No,” the doctor whimpered. “Please, don't.”

He wanted to shout for help, but he was too weak. Everything hurt, his whole body screaming in outrage at him. All he could do was lay there, useless, pathetic. He was going to be raped. Just like Sherlock.

And Sherlock was going to have to watch.

Vern tore John's head back by his hair, forcing him to look at Sherlock. 

“You see him?” Vern taunted. “You want to know how much of a hero your fantastic Sherlock Holmes is? He lied to you, Dr. Watson! He left you open for an attack from me because _he_ made this personal. Not me! He did it! He lied to you! This is all his fault! Look at him!”

Sherlock tossed his head once.

Vern, furious, shook John violently. “LIAR!”

John sobbed, and closed his eyes tightly.

_He wouldn't listen. The bastard couldn't make him listen._

John gritted his teeth. He'd be strong. He wouldn't beg. 

Vern scrambled for his belt buckle.

_He wouldn't beg..._

Suddenly, the door was flung open, and a flustered looking Lestrade rushed in. Vern snarled, leaped up, and moved backwards, pulling the stricken John Watson with him, the Jack knife now placed against John's bruised throat.

“Don't move, or I will kill him,” Vern hissed to Lestrade.

Lestrade looked from the tied up Sherlock, to John, and then finally at the clearly very unstable man holding John hostage. The Inspector could see how desperate the situation was, and how much very real danger Dr. Watson was in, so he raised his hands, and stepped away from the door.

Vern chuckled. He began to drag John closer towards the exit. His grip on John's throat was so tight, he once again couldn't breath, and he clawed uselessly at his captor's hand. It did no good.

“You have nowhere to go,” Lestrade told Vern calmly. “Let him go.”

Vern laughed. He glanced at Sherlock, still bound and gagged, and watching him so intently.

“You think you've won?” Vern yelled. “I'm leaving here, and he's coming with me. Try to stop me, and I'll gut him like a fish. You got it?”

Suddenly, out of the blue, John threw himself back, throwing him and Vern into the wall. The moment’s confusion was all Lestrade needed and he leaped at Vern, pushing him away from the bound doctor, and trying to bring the struggling man under control. In the melee, the Jack knife was knocked out of Vern's grasp and it went skidding along the carpet. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on that knife. If someone could get to it, they could free him.

And that's when he saw him. Anderson. Standing like a spare part in the doorway.

Sherlock yelled at him through his gag, and Anderson gazed back at him. Sherlock looked from Vern, to the knife, and back again. 

By some miracle, Anderson understood.

He raced forwards, unnoticed by any one else in the room, thanks to the ongoing struggle between Lestrade and Vern. Anderson scooped up the knife, and then skidded to a halt in front of Sherlock. He stared down at the detective, the knife raised in his hand. 

Sherlock stared back at him.

_Hurry up, Anderson._

And then he dived behind Sherlock, and quickly cut through the ropes, setting the other man free. Sherlock didn't stand, or speak. He merely pulled open the drawer of the table beside him, and pulled out John's handy revolver.

Vern had apparently gained the upper hand. Lestrade was lying on his side, clutching his chest. Sherlock couldn't see how badly injured he was. He quickly looked at John. His best friend was crawling backwards, away from a now crazed looking Vern, who was reaching for John again. Whether to kill him, or whatever he had planned, Sherlock didn't care. The man had hurt John. There could only be one outcome.

Sherlock took a deep breath, aimed the revolver, and fired.

The bullet tore through the air, hitting Vern on the side of his head. Blood splattered everywhere. All over the walls, all over John and Lestrade. Vern had one second to look utterly shocked, and then, he was falling. He crashed down beside the Detective Inspector, and was dead before he hit the ground.

Lestrade reached out with a shaky hand, and felt for the man's pulse.

“He's dead,” he announced, and then moved into a kneeling position, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, and digest what had just happened. John, meanwhile, trembling and still gasping due to his ill-treated throat, stared in amazement at Sherlock. He saw that his friend's hand was not even shaking, Sherlock was not in the least bit scared, or unnerved. And then, when he met John's gaze, the doctor was stunned to see that Sherlock was apparently completely calm.

As they watched each other, in that second, John _knew._ He knew, for absolute certain, that the butcher had not been lying to him. Sherlock may have just rid the world of not only John's would be attacker but also an evil murdering bastard, and all was fine and good with that. But, what was very clear, was that Sherlock had not just killed his own rapist.

And that just left one very worrying question in John's mind.

If the Butcher did not rape Sherlock, then who did?

Glancing again, he saw his friend's gaze was locked on Anderson.

And then, he saw Sherlock, very slowly and carefully, almost subconsciously, aiming the gun in the direction of Anderson. 

Time seemed to stop, for John.

He saw Anderson freeze, apparently startled, and then he turn deathly pale.

Just as John considered going to Sherlock, to tell him everything was okay and not to start waving guns around, John saw that Sherlock was actually pointing the gun at the police officer. He was staring at Anderson, as if he was no longer aware that there was anyone else in the room. He and Lestrade had, momentarily, been forgotten. John, for a split second, was sure that Sherlock was actually going to fire.

He saw Lestrade, out of the corner of his eye, taking a wary step towards Sherlock. He clearly had come to the same conclusion.

_Sherlock was losing it._

That was when John noticed. Sherlock's eyes were glazed over, he seemed far away, as if he was in a trance. And his gun hand was trembling.

_He's scared._

_Scared of Anderson._

And, in that second, just as if a lightning bolt had crashed into him and making him see clearly for the first time, John _knew._

He looked back, he remembered, and he knew.

_How could he have been so stupid?_

He heard Anderson telling him how afraid he had been, how much of an ordeal it had all been for him as well as Sherlock, and how sorry he was for not being able to help the other man during his attack...

He heard Lestrade telling him how Anderson had taken charge of the forensics himself, so that he could finally do some good....

He heard himself telling Anderson how brave he was, how proud they all were.

Suddenly, it all made sense. Horrific, but perfect, sense.

It was Anderson. Anderson had raped Sherlock.

_Oh, my God._

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

He was free. His bonds were loose, and he could move again.

He went into action at once.

Anderson was still close by, too close. He was an unwanted distraction for Sherlock. The detective pushed him to one side, and then sharply pulled open a drawer on the table beside him.

He grabbed the gun. John's gun.

Sherlock looked across at the struggle playing out a few feet away. Vern was in control. He was going to hurt John again, probably even kill John. There was no choice, no available time to look for another option.

Sherlock didn't hesitate. He fired.

His aim was true. The bullet struck Vern perfectly, killing him almost instantly. Sherlock watched, with satisfaction, as the murdering rapist's face contorted with shock, and then he tumbled to the ground, away from John, blood pouring from the wound in his head. 

Dead. Sherlock had killed him.

John was safe. Both he and Lestrade were moving slowly, looking at the crumpled form before them, the truth of what had just occurred sinking in.

It was over. The Butcher was done.

Sherlock couldn't think clearly. He shook his head, trying to cloud in his mind, but it was useless. He was aware that Lestrade was reaching for Vern, to ascertain that the man was definitely done for, and was not coming back to haunt them. John was gaping at the bloodied body, breathing hard, in painful bursts.

For a second, he and Sherlock met each other’s gazes.

Then, Sherlock's eyes locked with Anderson's.

If it hadn't been for him, John could well be dead. That was the truth of it.

But Sherlock didn't care.

With one fluid movement, he untied the ropes that held his ankles to the chair leg, and then, he stood up straight.

He could feel the gun in his hand, daring him. End it. He turned the weapon over, lost in thought.

Emotions suddenly flooded through him. It was unexpected, and he felt faint.

_Pain. Shame. Fear. Guilt. Despair._

He felt it all, every agony, every moment of humiliation that had haunted him for the past two weeks, thanks to the man crouched so close to him. A haze descended. He couldn't see clearly. It was as if there was nothing, and no one, but Sherlock and his rapist. Lestrade and John had disappeared into that fog swirling. He couldn't reach them now.

_He didn't want to._

All he knew was that he was there, holding a gun, with his rapist standing a few feet away from him. Unarmed, and at his mercy.

_What do you think you should do?_

Sherlock swayed on the spot, his hand still trembling, as he covered Anderson with the gun. Anderson backed away slowly, his eyes moving rapidly from Sherlock, and then back to the revolver in his grip. 

_And he kept looking to the right. Why was he doing that? There was no one there. No one to help him. Kill him._

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off of the man before him. It would be so easy, so right. All he had to do was fire, and Anderson's life would be over. Sherlock could kill him, just as he had killed Vern. All he had to do was move his finger slightly, and no more Anderson.

And Sherlock couldn't think of a single reason not to.

The seconds ticked by. Still, Anderson didn't move.

Rage filled Sherlock. He was still shaking. Why was he shaking?

He remembered, being pinned beneath Anderson as the man lay on top of him, crushing him, grunting into his ear. He felt Anderson thrusting into his broken body, time and time again. He could feel the pain, all consuming, and the blood, so much blood, was pouring down his legs. And he heard Anderson's laughter, and shout of triumph as he had come deep inside of him. To kill the animal who had brutalised him could only be justice. It made sense. After what Anderson had done to him, why should he deserve to live?

_So, what was holding him back? Why did he feel so scared, so unsure? What was Anderson's life worth anyway?_

Sherlock's life, his very soul, had meant nothing to Anderson. He had tried to destroy him, to ruin the very thing that made him Sherlock Holmes.

All he had to do was pull the trigger. And then, in a flash, it would be over.

He would be free.

_Wouldn't he?_

Strange. He actually thought he could hear someone calling his name, but they, whoever they were, were so far away. They were alone, he and Anderson. No one to stop him, no one to judge him. This was his only chance. Take his revenge, end it. Do the world a favour. 

_Do it. Shoot him. Take the power back._

That little voice inside would not be silenced.

_Do it._

His hand was shaking. Too much. He couldn't aim. He couldn't think. Anderson would be able to fight back, would come for him. Could do it again.

_Stop him! Do it, now._

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock jumped. He looked up, alarmed. Lestrade was standing only a few feet away from him, watching him intently, his hand outstretched.

_How much time had just passed? Why was Lestrade staring at him like that?_

“You were miles away,” Lestrade said, keeping his voice low. He stepped closer. “You're okay,” the Inspector added, gently. “Won't you give me the gun, now? It's all over. Done with.” He gestured with his hand. “Just give me the gun.” 

Sherlock blinked. Lestrade and John. Vern, on the floor, dead, bleeding into the carpet. Mrs Hudson, down stairs, hurt.

_Oh God. What had happened? What had he done?_

He knew exactly what he had done. He'd aimed the gun at Anderson. He had wanted to shoot him. Anderson was still watching him nervously, hesitating before moving, clearly still expecting Sherlock to blow his brains out at any moment.

What had he been thinking of? Where had he gone? Had he lost his mind? Maybe, momentarily, he had. His stupidity and carelessness could have ruined everything.

_Had they seen? Had John seen?_

He looked over at his friend, who was still kneeling on the ground, his hands bound behind his back. John was staring at Sherlock, his expression stunned.

_Shit._

“It's over now, Sherlock.” Lestrade was telling him, repeating his words, as if he was addressing a child. How very patronising. “He's dead. He can't hurt you any more.”

Sherlock fixed the Inspector with a disdainful look. “I know.”

He stopped, suddenly whirling around. “Mrs Hudson?”

“She's alive,” Anderson affirmed. “I left Donovan downstairs with her. I heard the commotion up here and thought I'd have a look.”

“Good job you did,” Lestrade replied, though his eyes didn't leave Sherlock.

After a beat, Sherlock carefully nodded. “Indeed.”

He stole another quick glance at the watching John. His friend met his gaze and Sherlock could read the disgust and confusion on his face. Sherlock couldn't hold his stare. He had to look away. He was sure John could see right through him, see right into him, to see the truth of him.

_Oh God, he knows. What have I done?_

“Don't worry about Mrs Hudson right now, she's being taken care of, I promise.” Lestrade was trying to be reassuring. He wasn't succeeding. You could still cut the tension with a knife. And that was because, not one of them, including Sherlock himself, were completely certain what the Detective would actually do next. Lestrade was still holding his hand out, ready to take the gun. He tried again. “Please Sherlock, I need that gun from you.” When there was still no response, he added, more firmly, “now.”

More second passed. At last, Sherlock came to his senses. He took a deep breath, and then carefully handed the gun to Lestrade, who grasped it gratefully, and then placed it in a see through bag. Sherlock sighed. It was evidence now. John would not be happy at the loss of his gun. He made eye contact again with his friend. John was still staring, and he didn't look exactly happy. Sherlock went to walk across the room to him, but an awkward cough from Lestrade caught his attention. He looked questioningly at the Inspector, who was gesturing, uncomfortably, at Sherlock's midriff.

Sherlock realised, to his dismay, that his belt was still undone, and his trousers were slipping, revealing far too much. Sherlock swallowed, and turning a shade of red, he hurriedly pulled up his trousers, and then fixed his belt. His eyes flicked over to Anderson, who looked dumbly back at him, expressionless. Time seemed to pause. Anderson, eventually, figured out how much discomfort Sherlock was experiencing, and he finally looked away. With a big sigh, he brought a shaky hand up to rub at his sweaty face. Lestrade was watching them both, looking from one man to another, frowning.

Sherlock looked over at John. He was now glaring at Anderson.

Sherlock's heart sank. Oh God. This would be difficult. He recognised John's stance. The man wanted to attack. Sherlock had to diffuse the situation, and quickly. He wouldn't do John the disrespect of telling him he had imagined what he had seen, John was far too astute, too clever. Of course he had. There was no other way out, Sherlock would have to try and make amends himself.

_If he could convince John that he had simply panicked, thanks to his ordeal at Vern's hand, then maybe, all was not lost._

So, as confidently as he could manage, Sherlock walked directly up to Anderson, stopping right in front of him. 

“I need my Jack Knife, please, Anderson.” Sherlock said, plainly, to the surprised man. “Oh, and well done, by the way. You showed some unexpected quick thinking there. I'm impressed.”

Anderson blinked. His lips twitched.

“Thank you,” he replied, and then held out the knife for Sherlock to take.

The two men exchanged a knowing look, and then Sherlock turned his back on Anderson. 

_Was that good enough? Normal, flippant enough to convince John? Only time would tell._

Now, he wanted to go to John. John was all he needed in that moment. Everyone else, be damned. John would know what to say, what to do. Sherlock saw, to his dismay, that John was still struggling with the ropes that bound him, unsurprisingly, seeing how no one had thought to set him free. Anderson, typically, was wrapped up in his own problems, staring into space, and Lestrade seemed more to be more concerned with Sherlock's state of mind.

Annoyingly. John was the one who had just escaped a brutal rape! It was his turn to be fussed over. Why were people still preoccupying themselves with Sherlock? It was most unwanted.

Sherlock went to walk past Lestrade on his way to get to John, but Lestrade caught his arm, preventing his progress.

Sherlock glared at him. “Do you mind?” He snapped.

“No,” Lestrade retorted. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock shook his head.

_Boring._

“I'm fine.”

He tried to pull his arm away from Lestrade's grasp, but the Inspector held him firmly.

“Sherlock,” he began, but the other man didn't want to hear the rest of the sentence.

“Honestly, Lestrade,” he retorted. “I'm definitely not going into shock, if that's what you are going to suggest.”

Despite himself, the Inspector couldn't help but smile. “No. Not this time. I just,” he hesitated, knowing Sherlock was already on the defensive, which was normally the case when Lestrade showed him any kind of concern. “You've been through a lot, that's all.” He looked down. “I'm worried about you.”

Sherlock was, most unexpectedly, touched. Well, almost. And embarrassed. 

He glanced away quickly.

“Thank you,” he replied, so softly. “Your concern is appreciated, Lestrade.” He ran a hand through his hair, now agitated. “But as you can see Inspector, unlike the Butcher, I'm still standing.” He gestured theatrically, to prove his point. “Now please, can I go and tend to my friend? Perhaps you should remember, I wasn't the only one in danger today.”

Lestrade frowned. He looked over at the doctor. When he saw the man was still in his bonds, a hint of guilt flashed over his face. 

_Bloody hell. Poor John. He hadn't even complained._

“Go on,” Lestrade said to Sherlock, quietly.

At last. He didn't need to be told twice. As soon as Lestrade had spoken, Sherlock was beside John in a flash.

“Are you alright?” He asked his friend, his concern evident in his tone.

John was reminded of another day, in another place, but a very familiar situation. Sherlock had pointed a gun at his enemy that day, too.

“John?” Sherlock prodded. “I asked you-”.

"Yes," John cut across him, more sharply than he had expected. He saw Sherlock recoil slightly at his tone, and he regretted it instantly. But John was still thinking about Anderson. And when the doctor looked over once more at the smarmy man, who was watching Sherlock with something akin to _affection,_ he realised that he now made his flesh crawl. Had he always? Had John just never cared enough before to notice? John waited as Sherlock checked him over, looking for any injuries, but John was mainly unharmed. Lucky for him. Thanks to Sherlock and Lestrade. And, John, though he was loathed to admit it, also owed a debt of gratitude to Anderson. 

The doctor frowned. Sherlock seemed normal now. Distracted, obviously, but that was to be expected considering everything, but it seemed odd that he no longer appeared concerned about Anderson's presence.

Uncertainty crept in.

He hadn't imagined it, had he? Could it have been the whole ordeal finally catching up with Sherlock, affecting his friend, threatening to break him? Any normal man would have lost control a long time ago after everything he had been subjected too. Of course, Sherlock was remarkable, but there was only so much that even he could take. Had his treatment at the Butcher's hand finally, if only temporarily, pushed him over the edge?

John had been so sure. And now, he was doubting himself. He could hardly accuse Anderson could he? On merely a hunch. He was a policeman, for crying out loud! One of Lestrade's own team!

_This was crazy._

For Sherlock, in his mind’s eye, had it even actually been Anderson that he had been pointing the gun at? It could have been anyone, judging by Sherlock's state of mind in that moment. Because, if there was one thing that John remained certain of, it was the belief that Vern was not Sherlock's rapist. 

John suddenly was aware that Sherlock had finished his task, and his wrists were finally free. He rubbed at his hands, trying to get the blood to circulate once more. Sherlock took hold of John's newly freed hands, and pulled him up beside him, helping John to stand.

John was unsteady on his feet, so he leaned against Sherlock for support. 

He was pleasantly surprised to discover that his friend didn't complain.

“Are _you_ okay?” John enquired, gently.

Sherlock frowned. “Enough with the fussing,” he snapped. Then, he closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he offered, wearily. “Been quite a day.”

John nodded in agreement. “Quite a fortnight, even.”

Sherlock tightened his hold on John. “I thought... when Vern grabbed you...” His voice trailed off. He didn't know how to finish the sentence.

John found that he didn't need too. “I know,” he muttered. “I really thought that he was going to-”.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Very smart of you, to call Lestrade. I'm glad you didn't decide to play the hero.”

John shrugged. “You told me once. Heroes don't exist.”

Sherlock didn't like where this exchange was heading. He waved a hand, absently. 

“Well, I'm just glad he didn't get to,” he paused, uncertain. He was flustered, and self-conscious. “I mean, um, I'm happy that Vern couldn't deliver on his threat.” He blinked. He knew he was making a mess of this statement. He couldn't hold John's gaze, and looked away, his cheeks slightly pink. 

John knew Sherlock would never be able to tell him how relieved he was that John was unharmed. Sherlock had saved his life, yet he would never be expected to mention it again. 

John wondered if he should feel offended.

He didn't. Instead, he smiled.

“I know you're pleased I'm safe, Sherlock.” He patted his arm. “The feeling’s mutual, trust me.” His voice faltered. “But I need to ask you, about something that Vern said-”. 

“It can wait, John.”

“Can it?” John didn't want to wait. “Sherlock, I...”

“Let it go, John.”

They looked at each other. Sherlock looked so tired, so weak all of a sudden, that John stopped prying. Those were questions for later. So much was still unsaid between them. And, at that moment, it dawned on the pair of them that it actually didn't need saying. They were both okay. That's what mattered.

_But those questions needed answering. Some time. And soon._

“How's Mrs Hudson?” John asked.

Lestrade looked over at him. “Just about to get an answer to that question, Dr. Watson.”

He was on his mobile, dishing out instructions. Just as John wondered who to, it quickly became clear. The door was opened, and a rather nervous looking Sally Donovan walked in, taking in the scene in the room, but, obviously trying her utmost not to make eye contact with Sherlock.

“Inspector,” she advised, “The ambulance is here.” 

Sally kept her gaze on Lestrade, still managing to ignore Sherlock. It seemed she had been told it would be best for her not to acknowledge the consulting detective at all, seeing how their last encounter had played out. Or maybe she was, rightfully, horrendously embarrassed. “The paramedics are taking the old lady to hospital.” She added, swallowing.

Lestrade nodded. “Thank you, Donovan.” He handed her the bag which held John's revolver. “Put this with the rest of the evidence, please.” He then gestured for her to go.

She turned to leave, but then, after a beat, apparently changed her mind. She chanced a look at Sherlock. He had his hands clutched behind his back, and was watching her, apparently intrigued, 

She took a wary step toward Sherlock. The look he gave her was not encouraging.

“Sally,” Lestrade said, quickly. “That will be all.”

She ignored her Inspector.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, her head down. “Those things I said in that house, and grabbing you like that,” she paused, nervously. This was certainly no easy task for her. “I shouldn't have done it, I was out of line, and I really am sorry.” she finished. She sounded sincere.

Sherlock's face was passive. “You're right. You shouldn't have done it.” And then, he added, “Is that all?”

She fixed him with a look then. The look was not kind. “No, not all…I also accept that it was not only uncaring of me, but also very unprofessional for someone in my position to taunt a rape victim like that.” 

Her tone was gentle and apologetic, but her eyes, they were as cold as ever. And Sherlock, of course had noticed. His face hardened.

So,” Sally continued, “I want to apologise for touching you.” There was the tiniest hint of a smirk. “I _really_ don't know what came over me.”

John was astounded. Did she have the nerve to call that an apology?

Sherlock smiled. “You can tell your review board that I am pleased to accept your kind apology.” He stepped forward, and she actually backed off. This pleased him. “Oh, and one more thing, if you don't mind? I believe you'd be better suited to a desk job somewhere in the country instead of the city, Sergeant Donovan. Out of harms way.” He seemed to consider it carefully. “Maybe Lands End would be a good suggestion for the board?”

She was just managing to keep her cool. 

_This had not gone to plan._

“That's enough, Donovan,” Lestrade snapped. “I'm sure you have work to do.”

She frowned. It was against her nature not to have the last word. Eventually, she nodded once to her Superior, and with one last hateful look in Sherlock's direction, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Sherlock seemed amused. “She could do with anger management training, Lestrade.”

Lestrade's displeasure was obvious. “Glad to see you're feeling better,” he threw at Sherlock, who shrugged in response. 

“She brings out the best in me.”

Lestrade bristled. He turned to his remaining colleague. “Anderson,” he instructed, wearily. “Go and help Sally, will you?” He shot Sherlock a disapproving glare. “And see if you can calm her down. I don't need any more drama, thank you.”

“Yes, sir,” Anderson walked carefully towards the door. He stopped beside Sherlock, who was eyeing him cautiously, “Sally really did want to apologise to you.” He told the detective curtly. “She felt bad for taunting you, you know.” 

Sherlock glared back at him. He couldn't care less about Sergeant Donovan or her insecurities.

He had other things on his mind.

“Not interested,” he replied, sullenly. 

“Fine.”

As he passed Sherlock, Anderson gave him a small, triumphant smile. And, despite his best efforts to conceal his feelings, Sherlock couldn't help but be filled with revulsion.

And John, still standing beside him, felt his friend shudder. He saw the stricken look that was on his friend's face, just for a split second.

But it was long enough.

And that all John needed. He knew, for definite this time, that he had been right. He would not doubt himself any longer.

John clenched and unclenched his fists. He watched Anderson disappear out of the door to their home, where Sherlock was supposed to feel safe, and, John hoped, loved. Anderson had now tainted that too.

_“But... I'm tainted...”_

Hatred and disgust swelled deep inside of John.

He was not imagining this. It was real. How could he have not listened to his first instincts? Had he learned nothing from being at Sherlock's side these past months?

He'd let him down. He'd allowed his mind to be swayed. 

_Idiot. Stupid, ignorant cretin._

And now, he had to deal with the truth.

 _Anderson_ had raped his best friend. He'd beaten him, brutalised him, torn him apart.

And he had walked away, leaving him bleeding and bloodied.

He had left him for dead. And then had worked hard to cover his tracks. _A police man._ Oh yes, he'd been so clever. 

_Not clever enough._

He pictured Anderson's face, could imagine his triumph at the moment he knew he had overpowered Sherlock, the moment he realised he could do anything he wanted. Including forcing him to suffer the worst humiliation possible.

John closed his eyes. Tears threatened to come. He couldn't let them. His heart hurt.

 _How he wanted to make Anderson suffer too._

It dawned on him that Sherlock was watching him. He couldn't look his friend in the eye. Not right then. It wasn't Sherlock's fault, none of it. But John was very concerned that, if Sherlock said anything jovial, or carried on trying to cover for Anderson for some unknown, insane reason, he may just explode.

He had never felt so much hatred for another human being in his life. He was almost overcome with rage. The thought of Anderson touching Sherlock, hurting him, wrecking him... John Watson was not a violent man. He had seen more brutality to last anyone's lifetime, too much. But, there and then, he knew he could kill Michael Anderson. With his bare hands.

_What was he going to do?_

“You are sure you're alright, aren't you, John?” Sherlock asked him, eyeing him closely. He sounded nervous.

Scared that John may actually have managed to work it out, no doubt. 

_Why didn't he tell me?_

“I'm fine,” he answered, almost too quickly, but, to his relief, Sherlock seemed satisfied with that. He was obviously giving John some allowances for having nearly just been raped himself. Of course, John was anything but alright. He turned to look out of the window, gazing down at the police activity down below. So, that was why Lestrade had been on his mobile so much, plotting with his colleagues for them all to invade their home. Great. Now it would be almost impossible to get Sherlock on his own.

The silence was deafening. And it dragged on, all three of them seemed to be a loss of something sensible to say.

“I need some air,” Sherlock finally announced. John, who could feel his friend's eyes boring into him, continued to stare out of the window. Sherlock continued, regardless; “It’s got a bit stuffy in here. Too many people.” He gestured to what was left of Vern. “ _That_ rubbish needs seeing too, obviously. I don't like his stinking carcass cluttering up my living room, Lestrade.”

He regarded the Inspector with disdain. That familiar arrogance had crept back. Lestrade didn't look to thrilled to see it again, either. 

“And I doubt your people will want me around when they do finally get in here, and, carry out their little duties,” he widened his eyes, mockingly. “Which they will do painstakingly well though, I’m sure.”

Lestrade noted the sarcasm. He didn't like it but chose to ignore it. For now.

_Sherlock's defence barrier kicking in once again. Typical._

“Probably a good idea,” he told Sherlock. “Don’t you go far though, I want the paramedics to give you the once over, just to be safe.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I'll need a statement from you. You did kill a man today, after all.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “A murderer, and a rapist.”

Lestrade seemed to regret his choice of words. “I know, and I realise how personal this is.”

John frowned. _Open your eyes, Lestrade._

“Even in these circumstances, Sherlock; there are rules.” Lestrade continued. “There are procedures we have to follow, paperwork we have to complete. The guy was a sick bastard, I grant you.” He wavered. “But he was still a person. He was somebody's son. It's my job to deal with, and respect that, despite his appalling crimes.”

Sherlock was incredulous.

“This man had no respect for his victims. Nor for me or for John.” He felt annoyed. So what that this killer was just a boy? What difference did it make? “Why should I feel for him or his family? Why should I care?”

Lestrade fixed him with a knowing look. “Because you are so much better than the likes of him.”

Sherlock had heard enough.

“If you say so.”

Lestrade had other ideas.

“I want you sticking around here. Don't leave Bakers Street.” He told him. His tone showed there was no room for discussion. “And besides, I might need your help.” 

“Very likely.”

Lestrade felt his temper rising once again. “How did we ever cope without you? How would ever manage now, without your _assistance?”_

Sherlock eyed him. “I would hope that you might just be able to close up a case that I've already solved for you, Lestrade.” He thought this over. “Might being the operative word, obviously.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Sherlock.” 

The other man considered this. “Suit yourself, Inspector.” With a sideways glance to John, who was looking, obstinately, in the other direction, Sherlock moved towards the door. 

“Oh, by the way, Sherlock?” Lestrade called, halting him once again.

“What now?” Sherlock snapped, impatiently. He needed to get out of this room. He needed to think clearly, and he couldn’t, not in there, not with John’s sudden change in behaviour towards him. 

He couldn’t relax. 

“I didn’t mention,” Lestrade added, with a smirk, “Nice shot.” 

Sherlock’s was taken aback. He had no response to the sudden compliment. His mouth twitched. He finally allowed himself a small smile, and then disappeared hurriedly out of the door. 

Which left John and Lestrade alone. 

John hesitated. He knew he needed to say something. He didn’t even like Sherlock going off alone, even downstairs, when he knew Anderson was there too, prowling. Something had to be done. 

How come Lestrade had not noticed anything untoward? Or maybe, he had. This was a colleague of his after all. Perhaps he even saw Anderson as a friend. Had a simply ignored all the warning signs? Hoped they would go away?

For his sake, John hoped not.

Steeling himself, John walked up to Lestrade, and then cleared his throat.

“Detective Inspector?”

“Are you feeling okay, Dr. Watson?” He replied, “you look pale. I can get some help up here for you, or if this is about that gun of yours-”.

“No, it's not me. It's Sherlock.”

Lestrade frowned. “Oh? I thought he was acting more like his old self.”

John had expected this. “Oh, he was definitely acting, that’s for sure.”

Lestrade scowled. “What?”

John tutted. Though not a surprise, his ignorance was still irritating.

Especially as he was probably purposely ignoring the truth. Anderson was a colleague of his after all.

“Tell me you saw all of that.”

“Saw what?”

“Oh come on Lestrade!” John's patience had run out. “You know what I'm talking about! Sherlock pointing that gun at Anderson.” He leaned in closer, and hissed; “He was going to shoot him!”

“Doctor,” Lestrade retorted. He sounded unimpressed. “He had just survived an encounter with a mass murderer. You can't blame him for being a bit dazed back there!”

“You know Sherlock, Lestrade,” John snarled back. “That was not the first time his life has been threatened. He's always coped before. More than coped. He's reacted almost nonchalantly to previous situations like this one.” He glanced at the door. “And when have you ever seen him lose control like that? Ever?”

He had Lestrade's full attention now. “If there is something you want to say, doctor, just say it.”

“Are you being purposely blind, Lestrade?”

“John, I know you're upset-”

“You bet I am! My friend was raped! By _Sergeant Anderson!_ And you know it!”

Lestrade stopped. He put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out his phone again. He began to dial.

“I want you and Sherlock to get yourselves checked over.”

“Lestrade.”

“That's enough, doctor.” He pressed a button. “I'm not discussing this matter with you any more.”

John clenched his fists.

_“Why not?”_

Lestrade turned on him then, angrily.

“Because I know Mike Anderson, and I have done since he first joined the force. He was only seventeen, just a kid. A good kid. I know him, doctor. He's not capable of...” He broke off, clutching his phone tightly. “What do you expect me to do? _What can I do?_ Neither Sherlock nor Mike have told me much about that night, and I can't see that changing. There's nothing I can do. I cannot accuse a fellow officer, a colleague, on tittle-tattle.”

“Tittle-tattle?” John couldn't believe it. “You saw what I saw!”

Lestrade gritted his teeth. “Yes,” he ground out. “I saw what went on in there, and I saw Sherlock's reactions, and I'm as worried as you are, believe me. I want answers too. If you want me to help, John, if you want me to do my job, get Sherlock to talk to me.”

“How do I do that,” John snapped back. “He won't even talk to me.” That realisation hit him, and it hurt. If Sherlock couldn’t trust John with the truth, then who would he trust? It dawned on John, in that moment, that Sherlock probably did have every intention of taking the truth to the grave. John swore that that was not going to happen.

“He needs to tell me the truth.” Lestrade said, wearily. “Until he does, my hands are tied.” He noted his unfortunate choice of description, and nodded an apology. “Sorry.”

John knew it was useless, and he couldn't even blame Lestrade. The Detective Inspector really was banging his head against a brick wall. Until Sherlock chose to help himself, he really couldn't do a thing. And it was killing the policeman, that was obvious. With a jerk of his head, he dismissed John, and then returned to barking orders into his mobile. There was nothing more to be done.

With a defeated sigh, John left the living room, heading out of the open door, back onto the landing.

When he looked downstairs, his blood ran cold. 

Anderson and Sherlock were at the bottom of the stairs. They were standing close together, and they were alone.

When John looked closely, he saw Anderson was gripping the back of Sherlock's neck, and the hold was bruising. Sherlock had his back to John, but from his body language, John knew that he was in pain, and that he was squirming. Anderson was hissing in his ear, and the discussion looked heated.

Totally taken aback and at a loss of what he should do, John just stood there, staring at them. He could feel the bile rising up inside of him, and he swallowed it back down.

How could Sherlock stand that close to his rapist? How could he stand it?

John watched as Anderson released Sherlock, and his saw his friend's shoulders sag. His concern for his friend, and his hatred for Anderson, increased when John saw Sherlock touch the wall beside him, trying to steady himself. 

John felt useless. What good was he to Sherlock now? He should be protecting him. He should be screaming and shouting at Anderson. Damn it! He should be breaking the bastards legs! So, why couldn't he move?

Anderson was climbing the stairs, his eyes locked on John's. John had to look away. He couldn't bear to look at the monster.

_Sick, twisted bastard. How could you?_

Anderson was smiling at John. Now, John could see the truth. Now, he could tell how fake that smile was.

Why couldn't he before?

“You’d better take care of Sherlock, doctor.” Anderson was telling him. “The butcher really freaked him out.”

John nodded. He wondered how calm he looked. Inwardly, he was screaming.

“Did you see him point that gun at me?” Anderson continued, widening his eyes with pretend hurt. “I actually thought he'd shoot. That bastard really played with his head.” He tapped John on the shoulder. John barely prevented himself from laying the odious slime ball out. “At least we got him, that’s all that matters.”

“Got him?” John repeated. He didn't sound like himself.

“Yeah, that beast was definitely the animal that attached me that night.” He jerked his head. “And Sherlock too, just has to be. It's over now.” He smiled. “We made it through.”

“Yes,” John growled. “You did.”

Anderson blinked. Suddenly, he seemed aware that something was different about John. He didn't seem so sure now, as he regarded the doctor.

“Well, doctor, I better not keep the Inspector waiting,” he said, pleasantly. “I'll catch up with you later.”

“I'll look forward to it.”

Anderson smiled uncertainly, and then rushed past.

John shuddered. He despised the man. 

He would make him pay. One way or another. He had sworn that whoever had raped his friend would suffer dearly for what they put Sherlock through. His mind set had not changed.

He walked down the stairs, hands in his pockets. It suddenly came to him that he had not taken his coat off. He hadn't had a chance. He walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.

Sherlock was sat on the pavement outside; John nearly tripped over him. His friend seemed to be keeping an eye on the hive of police activity, and, much to John's disapproval, Sherlock was puffing on a cigarette.

With a sigh, John sat down beside his friend. Sherlock didn't react.

“You're disappointed,” Sherlock said, quietly.

“Sorry?”

“In my lack of willpower.”

“Sherlock,” John told him wearily, “After the couple of weeks, I've considered taking up smoking. I can't blame you.” He gave him a sneaky smile. “It will kill you though, you know.”

Sherlock chuckled. “So they say.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Suddenly, Sherlock spoke up.

“How’s your shadow?”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock pointed at a Mercedes, parked further up Baker Street.

John stared at the car. He recognised it only too well.

As they watched, the Mercedes suddenly pulled away, and drove quickly down the road, apparently in quite a hurry.

John frowned. "Where are they going? They bored of following me, or something?"

Sherlock considered the disappearing car. "Called away by my brother on more important duties, perhaps?" He smirked. "How intriguing."

"Mycroft's people?"

"Obviously."

John shrugged. "Well, they'll have reported back to Mycroft by now, won't they?"

"Of course."

They were silent again for a few moments, both looking in opposite directions. John couldn't stand it. He had to speak up, It was killing him.

“What the butcher said to me,-” John began, but Sherlock cut across him.

“His name was Vern,” he said, matter-of-factly.

John frowned.

_Let me speak, damn it!_

He tried again. “What _Vern_ said to me, about you lying to me,” he paused, wondering if Sherlock would interrupt him again. He didn't. John continued. “He said it was your fault, that you'd made it personal, not him.”

“What about it?”

“He wasn't making it up, was he?”

Sherlock took a long drag on his cigarette. “He was very sick, John. He was crazed. Who knew what he meant?”

John took a deep breath. “I know what he was saying to me. It wasn't too complicated, even for me. And I believe him.”

Sherlock turned and regarded John. John felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

“John, what do you want to say to me?”

John knew it was time. He had to be strong.

“I know it wasn't Vern that raped you.”

Sherlock was silent. He tossed his cigarette away. “Oh?”

John clenched his fists. “Vern wasn't even at the house with you that night. It was just you and Anderson.”

Sherlock flinched. John swallowed, but this time he was fighting back tears, not the urge to vomit.

“Anderson raped you, didn't he?”

Sherlock met John's gaze. He opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to change his mind. Instead, he stared at the ground. 

“So,” he said, finally. “You think you've worked it all out.”

John bristled. He didn't like Sherlock's tone.

“I don't think,” He retorted. “Sherlock, I know.”

Sherlock paused. He was apparently thinking carefully over every word.

“If this is about what happened earlier, I wasn't even aware I was pointing the gun at Anderson...”

“It's funny,” John snapped. His eyes were flaming. “A serial killer tells me the truth, where as my best friend is _still_ lying to me...”

“I'm not...”

“TELL ME THE DAMNED TRUTH, SHERLOCK!”

That last shout was so loud, so desperate, that any one close by, police and public alike, turned to look at the two men.

Sherlock frowned. He didn't like being stared at at the best of times, but at that moment, with John all emotional and so many police in ear-wigging distance of them. One of them could overhear John's angry words, and that would be a disaster. Everyone would know.

With a heavy heart, Sherlock knew he had no choice now.

_What would John think of him?_

Sherlock got to his feet, and then, grasping John's arm, pulled him up too. He then proceeded to drag John away from the whispering onlookers, down a side street adjacent to Baker Street.

“Sherlock, what?”

But Sherlock said nothing. He just continued on, down the quiet road, pulling John behind him. He didn't release his friend until they were a safe distance from Baker Street, and away from the prying eyes.

“Now, as we can't be overheard...”

John shoved Sherlock backwards.

“Admit what happened to you!” He demanded. “Just be honest with me.” He knew he sounded pitiful, but he didn't care.

Sherlock looked away. “John,” he began, but the doctor hadn't finished.

“You told me, the night it happened, that I was the only one you trust.” Now, the tears really were forming. “Was that true, Sherlock?”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

John grasped the other man's shoulder. “Then prove it! Tell me the truth.”

Sherlock didn't want to say the words. They hurt too much.

John lowered his voice. “Did Anderson rape you?”

“Why do you need me to say it?” He sounded exhausted, devastated. “You already know.”

John's heart broke. He covered his face with his hands. 

He had to stay strong. He had to keep it together.

Finally, he looked at Sherlock again.

“Because you need to face the truth too, Sherlock. You need to accept it. Otherwise, I can't help you heal.”

“I'm okay, John.”

“No, you're not.”

Sherlock reverted his gaze again. He stared into the distance, contemplating.

A few seconds passed.

John waited.

Sherlock let out a big sigh, and then turned to face his best friend once more.

“You're right.”

John could hear the despair in his voice. It took every ounce of his strength not to embrace his stricken friend.

Instead, he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible; “It was Anderson, wasn't it?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. And then, very gently, he nodded.

John's world fell apart.

He had worked this out for himself, obviously, but he had been so desperate for Sherlock to admit that truth, not only to John, but to himself, also. And now that he had, the desolation on his friend's poor face, it was just too much for John to take.

Tears fell silently down his face.

“How?” He managed, through the pain he was feeling. “How did he...?” He had to stop. How could he ask Sherlock how he allowed such an ignoramus to do something like that to him?

Sherlock, meanwhile, was once more gazing into space.

“He...” There was a pause. “He got lucky.”

John suddenly felt very useless. Why couldn't he stop crying? Pathetic.

“Sorry,” he muttered, wiping the wetness away.

“No problem,” came the soft reply.

“You need me to be there for you, not to break down at the important moment.” He closed his eyes. “I'm sorry I'm so weak.”

Sherlock actually smiled. And then, with difficulty and oh so awkwardly, Sherlock placed an uncertain arm around the smaller man's shoulders.

“You aren't weak, John.” Sherlock whispered. “You've helped me, kept me going.” He made John look at him. “I want you to know that.”

John smiled, despite his tears. “Going soft on me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock pulled away. “Of course not.” But then, he gave John a half smile. “Thank you, John.”

John struggled to control his emotions. His thoughts once again turned to Anderson, and a new wave of anger swept over him. “I comforted that bastard,” he snarled. “I thought he was upset and blamed himself for what happened to you. I told him he'd done a good job.” He felt sick. “And all the time, he...” John shook his head. “He disgusts me.”

Sherlock was quiet. He stood up, turning away slightly from John, trying to clear his thoughts again. Delete the unwanted thoughts. Finally, he replied; “I think Anderson is suffering a bit of a nervous breakdown. He definitely doesn't seem to be coping too well.”

John stared at Sherlock. “A breakdown? Well, that will be the least of his worries when I get my hands on him.”

Sherlock smiled, grimly. “I appreciate the sentiment, John. But you can't touch Anderson.”

John blinked. “And why is that exactly?”

“I don't want anyone else knowing,” Sherlock told him, firmly. “Look at your reaction. You couldn’t understand how a piece of slime like Anderson could have overpowered me.” He grimaced. “Everyone else will think the same. Imagine what Mycroft would think.” He closed his eyes. “If this gets out, then my reputation, and my career, would be in tatters.”

John was unimpressed. “And your career is worth more than your well being?”

Sherlock shrugged. “John, this is me, remember. My work is my life.”

John pursed his lips together. _That's not quite true though, is it?_

“And what about him paying for what he did?”

“He _is_ paying,” Sherlock responded. “Every day.”

John gestured angrily. “Well, he's obviously not paying enough!”

Sherlock sighed loudly. “John, just leave it.” And then, after a beat; “please.”

John was frustrated. Why did Sherlock always have to be so damned stubborn?

They didn't say anything for some time. Finally, it was John who broke the silence.

“Tell me what happened.”

Sherlock looked up. He was startled.

“Why?”

“Because I think you need to tell someone. Just one person.” He stepped closer. “Make it me.”

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't like it. He turned his back on John, placed his fingers together, and closed his eyes.

John watched him, wondering if he'd gone too far.

Just when John was preparing to apologise for being unfeeling, Sherlock began to speak.

He started his story, leaving nothing it. He told John everything. 

He told him how he and Anderson had argued, as any normal day, but this night, it had gone further than ever before. The taunting had become so personal, so cruel. From both of them. 

He had bitten his lip uncomfortably as he had described he had had thrown the first punch, and how a full scale fight had broken out. When he told John how he had gained the upper hand, and had beaten Anderson black and blue, his pain, and his guilt became clear.

John had placed a reassuring hand on his arm.

Sherlock had closed his eyes.

“You texted me,” he said, suddenly. “I was distracted, and Anderson hit me. Hard. I fell and hit my head on the marble fireplace. I was concussed, dizzy. I couldn't move.”

John swallowed. _Oh God._

Sherlock was not really talking to him any more. His friend's eyes were still tightly squeezed shut, and he was reliving the night in his mind as he described it. He balled his hands into fists, and his voice broke as he continued his horrific story.

“I was on my front, he was standing over me. He kicked me. Then, a new idea came to him. He was right up behind me. He asked me what I was good for? I could feel his erection through his trousers. He pulled my clothes off of me, and he grabbed me. I was on my knees. He lined himself up against me and....and...” Sherlock was trembling. He couldn't go on. He couldn't say the words.

John was aghast.

_Oh, Sherlock. How have you carried on with this, dealing with it on your own? You stubborn fool._

Sherlock let out a low sob. It almost destroyed John to hear his agony.

“When it was over, he regretted it. He gave me my coat, and then, he left.” He finally opened his eyes and looked straight at John. “And then, I called you.”

John didn't know what to say, had no idea how to react.

“It wasn't your fault,” he whispered. “None of it.”

“He wanted me to own up to my part of the blame,” Sherlock said. “I wouldn't.”

“Good.”

Sherlock was thoughtful.

“But that's not entirely true is it?” He suggested. “Anderson is a police officer, and, up until that moment, he was a good man. A moron, yes, but morally, quite decent. Therefore, I must have done something. I must have turned him into a rapist somehow.”

John was beside himself. He gripped Sherlock by both his arms.

“No. That's not true. You didn't do this. He did.”

Sherlock was staring down at the ground. “He isn't gay. He's married, and involved in an affair. But he raped me.”

“It was about power, Sherlock,” John offered, his stomach turning. If only he could see Anderson then, if only he could get close to him. He'd regret what he'd done. And then some. “It wasn't about sex. Rape very rarely is.”

Sherlock was still unsatisfied, “Yes, but there must have been something about me that made him want to do it at all.” He glanced at the doctor. “Is there, John?” His voice was so quiet, so small. “Do people _want_ to hurt me? Do they hate me that much? Was Anderson right?”

John shook his head firmly. He was at a loss for words. Nothing he could say could help? What could he do? How could he begin to truly repair the damage Anderson had done?

Sherlock hung his head. “John,” he managed, “Am I _worthless_?”

John was shaking. 

The rage inside of him was threatening to consume him. This was too much. He wanted to comfort Sherlock but he didn't know how to begin. What the hell could he say?

_I'll kill him. I'll kill him. I'll..._

“What are you two doing?”

They both started at the unexpected new voice. Lestrade was striding down the street, looking very rattled.

“I was looking everywhere for you!” The Inspector snapped. “I said In wanted you both checked out properly before you left. Of course, you don't listen.”

Sherlock glanced over at John. His friend had turned away from the Inspector, so the Detective could not see how upset he was.

Sherlock moved forward. “We were on our way back, Lestrade.”

“Good,” Lestrade retorted. “As shocking as this is, I don't actually live to run around after you two.” He glanced over his shoulder. “John, why don't you go first?”

He clearly wanted to speak to Sherlock alone.

John thought that was a good idea. He nodded.

Just at that moment, and it seemed to happen in slow motion for John, Anderson came hurrying down the street. He was dressed in his blue lab coat, clearly working on forensics.

“Sir,” he called. “We're about done in the living room now, do you want me to-”.

He never completed that sentence. 

“YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!”

John was moving before Sherlock could even attempt to stop him. The doctor left Sherlock's side, thundering past Lestrade, his eyes locked only on Anderson, who was now backing off, looking very concerned indeed.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, “Wait!”

John took no notice. With a cry of anguished fury, the small man, incensed with rage, launched himself at Anderson. He pinned the man on the ground, and uncaring that Lestrade and Sherlock were yelling at him to stop, he proceeded to batter the helpless man beneath him. Anderson yelled for all he was worth, and struggled, desperately trying to throw John off, but the furious man clung on.

“You son of a bitch, I'll kill you!”

In that moment, the quiet, gentle, unassuming John Watson was lost. All he wanted to do was hurt the bastard that had caused his best friend so much pain. 

The man who had raped Sherlock was right there, at his mercy. At last. And he would show none. Just as Anderson had done the same for his friend.

John knew he wasn't thinking clearly. He didn't care. And, in that second, he knew, without any doubt, that he could actually kill Anderson.

Anderson had stilled beneath him. He was no longer attempting to fight. He was just lying there, taking it. 

John felt a rush of triumph.

_He can end this right now._

His hands tightened around the man's throat.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

_“You son of a bitch! I'll kill you!”_

And John was doing just that. Sherlock had called his friend’s name, trying to prevent John from making a big mistake, but now, seeing as what was occurring had had time to sink in, he was actually darkly fascinated by what he was watching. John was actually killing a man, for Sherlock. For Sherlock's honour.

Sherlock couldn't deny that he was feeling quite a sense of exhilaration, watching John throttle his rapist. And those interesting wheezing sounds that Anderson was eliciting, they were actually music to Sherlock's ears.

_Anderson deserves to die. John has the right to kill him. He's doing this for me._

And then, it was over.

Lestrade had seen enough. He grabbed John, manhandling him away from bloodied Anderson, and then Anderson was moaning weakly and holding his throat, gasping in pain, and whimpering pathetically. Then he was spluttering his protestations to Lestrade and glaring accusingly at John. The doctor was still yelling, still fighting tooth and claw against Lestrade, trying to get free, and have another shot at Anderson. He wanted to finish the job.

“You bastard! You sick, twisted bastard! How could you!?”

“Dr. Watson,” Lestrade was stating, “You need to calm down.”

“Don't you fucking tell me to calm down...” There was no getting through to John. He was lost in his fury.

“If you don't calm down, Dr. Watson, I will arrest you for assaulting a police officer.”

“Go ahead!” John snapped back, furiously. “Some example for your team, he is! You think I give a _damn_ what you do? You're as bad, Lestrade! Are you going to cover this all up too? You're letting him get away with it, aren't you?!”

Anderson, dabbing at his bloody and beaten face with a tissue, was eyeing John, nervously. Glancing over, he scowled at the silent Sherlock. 

_This was all his damned fault! Why couldn't he have just kept his end of the bargain and kept his big mouth shut?! Now, they were both finished._

“What is he talking about?” Anderson demanded. He took a step toward Sherlock, and snapped at him; “What have you said to him?”

John was off again. “Don't you fucking dare talk to him, you fucking twat!” John yelled, trying to wrestle his way free from Lestrade, but the Inspector was a lot stronger than he was, and he held him firmly. “Don't you go near him.” He was desperate. “Let go of me, Lestrade!”

“John,” Sherlock said, softly. “Enough.” His eyes met his friend’s. “This won't help anybody.”

“Sherlock, you can't just-.”

“John,” Sherlock continued. He sounded so unperturbed, John was stunned. “I need you to stop, and to _think_ about this.”

His words, and the meaning behind them, finally managed to get across to John. The more he attacked Anderson, the more trouble he would find himself in. He took a deep breath, and then stopped struggling against Lestrade. After a brief moment of uncertainty in John's sudden change, Lestrade released the doctor, and took an unsure step back. John just stood there, breathing hard, and eye balling the now red-faced Anderson with utter hate.

“How could you do it?” He snarled. “Exactly what kind of a man are you?”

Anderson glanced from Sherlock, to John, and then, back again.

He straightened his coat. He looked positively put upon.

John narrowed his eyes. _This should be good._

“You have the nerve to have a go at me, Doctor Watson?” He remarked, his eyebrow raised. “You're the one that just attacked me, remember?” He glared. “And rest assured, I will be pressing charges!”

John actually laughed.

“You think I care? You’re sicker than I thought!” He looked ready to pounce once again and a weary Lestrade moved in front of John, blocking his route to Anderson. “You deserve a lot worse than what you just got!” John yelled and gestured furiously at Sherlock, who was apparently rooted to the spot. “After what you did to _him?_ ”

Anderson staggered slightly. “And what, exactly, am I _supposed_ to have done? You have some evidence, I assume?”

John went to barge Lestrade out of the way. He would kill this arsehole, with Sherlock's blessing, or without.

“John,” came that soft voice again, warning him so gently. Sherlock didn't sound angry, or disappointed. He just sounded concerned.

“He deserves it, Sherlock,” John growled, through gritted teeth. “He's not getting away with it.”

“Enough, Dr. Watson!” Lestrade snapped. “This is not getting anyone, anywhere! I want somebody to tell me what the hell is going on!” His eyes met Anderson's. And John saw, very fleetingly, but it was definitely there, an unsaid accusation, just on the tip of Lestrade's tongue.

_He does believe. He knows Anderson is hiding something. He needs the git to slip up._

It seemed Anderson had sensed the same thing. He stole a glance at Sherlock. He could feel the other man's large eyes boring into him and it made him shiver. It was almost as if Sherlock was daring Anderson to get himself out of this. 

Anderson tossed his head arrogantly. 

_Fine. Lestrade has faith in me, Holmes. He doesn't even really know you._

He knew what Sherlock was waiting for. He expected Anderson to bungle this all by himself. Sherlock believed that he wouldn't even need to speak; Anderson would save him the trouble. He had actually _deduced,_ Anderson was certain, that Lestrade would turn on his own colleague and take Sherlock's side. It was almost as if Sherlock was daring Anderson to get himself out of this mess. Well, Anderson would prove the obnoxious bastard wrong.

 _Just like he had before_.

He met Sherlock's stare again for a moment.

 _Think you've won? You just watch me, you freaky weirdo. Your little puppy dog might believe you, but no one else will._

Turning away from Sherlock, Anderson puffed out his chest and fixed his Detective Inspector with what he hoped was his most honest, not to mention suitably mistreated, facial expression.

“I can promise you, Sir, on my life, that I have no clue what he is talking about.”

“You lying bastard!” John shouted. “How _can_ you deny it?”

Anderson actually smirked. Maybe this wasn't over for him yet after all. Now, he understood.

 _You don't what to say it, do you, doctor? You're worried about embarrassing your poor and broken friend. Well, you're going to have to say the words now. You'll have to force him to look Lestrade in the eye, aware that Lestrade knows. Good job. You brought this on him, not me._

“I want everyone to take a deep breath and calm down.” Lestrade said, hands raised. He glanced at Sherlock. He was watching Lestrade closely, unmoving. The Detective was unnerved by Sherlock's silence. It felt like the Consulting Detective was looking right into him, waiting, hoping that Lestrade would come to the right result. Lestrade could feel the pressure and he didn't like it.

“Dr. Watson,” Lestrade said, softly. “Get to the point, please.”

John blinked. He exchanged looks with Sherlock. He could sense see the shame in those eyes, the fear.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock. Forgive me._

“You already know, Lestrade, but if you need to hear the words, fine.” He pointed hatefully at Anderson. “He raped Sherlock.”

Anderson burst out laughing. “I did what?” He exclaimed. “That's pathetic!”

Sherlock was taken aback by the sound of the man's laughter, and his ridicule of John's accusation. He was staring down at the ground and John was certain, judging by his friend's body language, that the anguished man wanted the ground to swallow him. Anything to make this stop.

John shuddered. _What had he done?_

Lestrade waved an agitated hand. “Be quiet, Mike.”

“But, Sir, you cannot actually _believe_ -.”

“I SAID, SHUT UP!”

Anderson was flabbergasted. 

John couldn't help but be pleased.

Sherlock was unresponsive.

John stepped forward. “Lestrade, ask Sherlock what happened! Ask him!”

Anderson was flustered now. “B-but,” he stammered. “H-he hates me!”

The look on Lestrade's face was one of complete disgust.

“I hope I don't have to tell you again,” he warned Anderson. “Just one more word, I swear.”

When the other man looked away from his glare, he sighed, and then turned to Sherlock.

Lestrade bit his lip. He leaned closer to Sherlock, keeping his voice low and gentle.

He only spoke three words, but they changed everything.

“Is this true?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. John watched him, willing him to speak. He knew how hard this was, how shaming, to admit such a humiliating thing to the Detective Inspector. But John also knew that there was no other choice. They had to take the fight to Anderson. Because one thing was clear, the scum bag was never going to admit what he had done.

Lestrade gave Sherlock some time to respond, but when he realized no reply was forthcoming, he stepped closer to the other man and whispered intently to him.

“It's time for honesty, Sherlock. It's time to put this behind you.”

Still, no response.

“You see!” Anderson said loudly. He was smiling now. 

John wanted to wipe that smug smile off of his face. Permanently.

Anderson was still speaking. “He can't even accuse me himself, had to get his little pal to do it instead! This is all complete shit, Sir.”

Lestrade ignored his ranting colleague. He didn't stop watching Sherlock.

“John tried to kill Sergeant Anderson,” he told Sherlock, firmly. “If you don't start talking to me, he could be in a lot of trouble. Maybe even an attempted murder charge. Are you going to let that happen?”

Anderson was shocked. He looked over at the now horrified looking doctor. And then, he felt a rush of triumph. Oh yes! Would Lestrade really allow that to happen? He'd have no choice, would he? John Watson in prison for nearly killing him? Sherlock, alone, friendless, finished? Oh yes, Anderson liked the sound of that. Mike Anderson would be in the clear.

But then, Sherlock looked up, and stared solemnly into Lestrade's eyes. 

“Blackmail, Lestrade?” Sherlock said, quietly.

Lestrade smiled grimly. At least he's talking to me.

“Desperation,” he replied, and Sherlock knew he was being truthful. He was desperate. He nodded, encouragingly. “Tell me.”

Anderson was looking hopefully up the street. Getting ready to run. 

John frowned, not taking his eyes off of the little slime ball.

_Don't you even think about it, you coward._

Finally, Sherlock spoke again. He spoke softly, but confidently. And John would always be grateful, and so proud of his friend. Because he had faced his demons, and he had done it for him.

“John told you the truth, Lestrade,” Sherlock stated. “Mike Anderson beat me and raped me. Brutally. Just as the doctor said.”

Lestrade let out a sigh of relief. He grasped the younger man's shoulder and smiled gratefully at him.

Sherlock nodded.

“NO!”

John, Sherlock and Lestrade all looked up abruptly. Anderson was shaking uncontrollably, one hand waving, trying to point in Sherlock's general direction.

“I didn't...” He was spluttering, bouncing from one foot to another. And, he was terrified. His lying, and clever planning, had got him through so far, but not any more. He knew he was done, but he wouldn't face what he'd done. Couldn't face it. Because then it would be real. “There's no way I'd ever... I haven't done...” He couldn't find the words; he just shook his head, tears already beginning to leak out of his eyes. “He's lying to you, Lestrade. Trying to pull the wool over your eyes! He's always hated me! The Butcher attacked me that night and raped him. He wants to ruin me! I've never touched him! He's sick! Rape? How the hell could I be capable of something like that?

Lestrade frowned. He reached in his pocket. Anderson knew what he was looking for. He backed off, as Lestrade pulled out his handcuffs.

“It's over, Anderson.” He moved forward. “You are going to have to come with me.” 

Anderson was shaking his head, disbelieving.

“No,” he whimpered. “Please, Sir. Listen to me! I didn't hurt him.” He gestured angrily. “If I did, then show me some evidence. There was nothing was there? The tests from that house? The forensics? Nothing showed up!”

Lestrade gritted his teeth. “You'd know, Anderson,” he snapped. “Seeing how it was you that tampered with the tests.”

“That's not true.”

“Anderson, I know. I've known for some time. I wanted to ignore the truth, refuse to believe that someone in my team... a friend...” He sounded weary, like a man who had had to live with a big burden for some time and was now, finally, letting it all out. “But, I knew it was true. The truth was laid out in front of me, I couldn't hide. I had to do the right thing, but I just couldn't prove it, or do anything about it, not until Sherlock was ready to talk to me.” He gestured to John. “Sorry I was so unhelpful earlier, Dr. Watson. I had no choice.”

John was astounded. Sherlock was watching the Detective too.

_They had both underestimated him._

And Lestrade's next words made John's blood run cold.

“I'm not the only person who’s known for some time, Anderson. Others worked it out too; you weren't quite as clinical as you thought. They've been waiting, just in the background, and biding their time to act.” He licked his lips. “Guess that waiting time's run out now.”

John let out a deep breath and glanced at Sherlock, who had closed his eyes tightly.

_This is not what he had wanted._

Anderson's world was falling apart around him. He'd been so careful, so clever. How had Lestrade seen through him? And who else had? What would happen to him?

“I didn't do it.” He snapped, pointlessly. It was only himself he was lying to now. 

“Come on, Mike.” Lestrade said quietly. “We don't have to make a big scene in front of everyone else. Lets go, nice and calmly, together.”

“No, I'm not going to prison. Not for him. I'm not.” Moving quicker than the other three men could ever have considered him able, he stuck a hand in his coat and pulled out a gun. His finger on the trigger, he pointed the gun straight at Lestrade. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Lestrade was on the alert at once. He took a step back, moving closer to John and Sherlock, and raised his hands. Exactly what was Anderson going to do?

This was not the man he'd known for years. The Mike Anderson he had seen grow up in the force was not capable of rape. Or pulling a gun on three unarmed men. This was a stranger.

And he was now showing just how unhinged he truly was.

“Where did the gun come from?” Lestrade enquired, calmly.

John stepped forward. “Hey! That's _my_ gun.”

Lestrade grabbed his arm; concerned that John would just attack Anderson again, despite the treat of the gun that the clearly sick man was now waving around.

Besides, Lestrade already knew the answer.

“Donovan,” he groaned. “And I gave it to her for the express reason of keeping it away from him. Didn't want to lose any more evidence.”

Anderson, shaking, was still in little control of the gun, it seemed. He was so upset, so desperate, anything could happen. And Lestrade was very aware of it. 

Got to calm him down. Got to get that gun off of him.

“Don't blame Sally,” Anderson stormed. “It wasn't her fault. I told her you'd asked me to fetch the weapon from her, for forensic testing. Why should she doubt me?” He nudged the gun against his own forehead. John held his breath.

Oh God. This can only end badly.

“If I go to jail, Sir,” Anderson continued, with a strangled sob, “they'll kill me. Or worse. You know what happens to cops inside. I'm not going to end my life like that, because I made one mistake.”

Sherlock reacted. John saw. And the red mist descended again.

“A mistake?” He snarled. “You raped a man. You beat him into submission, gave him concussion, held him down, and raped him. And you walked out of there, Anderson. You walked away. Hoe could you do that?”

Anderson shook his head. “Him? A man?” He snorted. “He's hardly even human! He's a freak!” 

“I'm not a freak,” Sherlock offered, quietly. “I didn't deserve what you did to me.”

“Oh no?” Anderson offered. The gun was now pointed at Sherlock. “You provoked me!”

Lestrade took another wary step forward. “You admit it then, Mike?”

Anderson laughed. John shivered to hear that crazed sound. 

“I didn't mean to do it!” Anderson snapped. It was as if he was still trying to justify his actions. “I couldn't cope with him for another second, laughing at me, taunting me, and belittling me! He would never stop!” His eyes widened. “But I found a way to shut him up! I couldn't help it, I lost my mind! 

John shook his head. _Pathetic_. “You still have.”

The gun trembled. Lestrade frowned, once more placing a calming hand on John's arm. Sherlock didn't move, his eyes were locked on his rapist’s. He didn't seem scared, or concerned that a gun was pointing at him. He was just watching, so intently. And that probably unnerved Anderson more than any thing else.

Anderson was still appealing, still trying to convince his superior officer of his innocence. “You know me, Lestrade,” he whispered. “You know I would never hurt an innocent...” A pause. “He was asking for it.” He waved the gun again. “It was his fault too.”

Lestrade stared at him for a few moments, and then he spoke, very carefully and clearly. “You disgust me.”

Anderson gaped at him. His eyes widened, incensed.

He began to rant, losing all reason. There was nothing left of the good man who had been Michael Anderson now, he was lost in the madness. And all he wanted to do was hurt.

“He's ruined my life! I'm glad I've ruined his too!” He addressed John. “You were so desperate to find out the truth, doctor? You want to know how it felt? Well, guess what? It felt _fucking_ unbelievable. He didn't even fight me. He just lay there and took it. Hey, maybe he wanted it! Nothing but a worthless whore!”

And that was when it happened.

John surged forward. He didn't care about the revolver any more. He just needed to shut Anderson up. Anderson panicked. John didn't read that it was going to happen, or whether Anderson meant to fire, but as soon as John got close to the deranged man, the gun in his hand fired.

The sound of gunfire filled the air. John heard himself cry out, and then he stared, horrified, at Sherlock.

_The bullet. It's going to hit him._

John could do nothing. He was helpless. All he could do was watch. And then he saw Lestrade, who had apparently seen what was going to happen, charge into Sherlock, forcing him out of the way. Sherlock hit the ground, hard. Clutching his right arm, he looked over and saw Detective Lestrade, laying, bleeding on the floor.

John dove for the Detective and turned him over carefully, checking him. The bullet had torn into his shoulder. He was bleeding profusely from the wound.

As John cared for the injured Lestrade, Anderson, barely holding on to what was left of his mind, saw his chance. He leaped forward, grabbed the stunned Sherlock by his collar, and hurled him up. He placed the gun against Sherlock’s temple, and then looked, dementedly, at John, and at the now sitting up, and gasping, Lestrade. Sherlock turned deathly pale, but he didn't try to struggle.

His eyes did not leave John's. 

John, stunned by this latest development, was already getting to his feet, his hand still covering Lestrade's wound, well aware that he had to keep the pressure up to stem the bleeding.

“Don't move,” Anderson warned, quickly. “I'll do it. I'll shoot!” He began to move backwards, dragging Sherlock with him.

“Don't be an idiot, Anderson,” John hissed. “Let him go.”

That insane laughter came again.

John swallowed, hard. He could see the effect that being in such close proximity to his rapist was having on Sherlock. The man looked sick with fear. John had to stop Anderson, somehow. 

“I _will_ kill him, Dr. Watson,” Anderson promised. “What have I got to lose now?

Lestrade was in so much pain; it was hard for him to talk. “You're going to make things a lot worse for yourself, Mike.”

Anderson rolled his eyes. “Worse?” He was incredulous. “How? I've lost everything because of Sherlock Holmes. My job, my wife has moved out, and now, I've even lost my sanity. What the hell have I got to live for?” He tightened his finger on the trigger. Sherlock was sweating now, though he remained silent. “I'm not losing my freedom too! I'd rather die! I'll kill him first, at least I'll take him with me!”

John couldn't stop himself. “You're insane, Anderson.”

Anderson shrugged. “My life is over, thanks to this arrogant,” he shook Sherlock,” worthless bastard.”

John clenched his fists. “Don't call him worthless! He's amazing. Look how he's reacted to this. Calm, dignified. You want to know what he's worth to me? Everything. He means the world to me. All that you're complaining about, you've brought all of that on to yourself, Anderson.”

_“What's going on?”_

Everyone stopped.

Anderson whirled around, still holding Sherlock by his neck.

Donovan was standing just behind them. She looked worried as she took in the scene before her. Her eyes darted from John, to Lestrade kneeling down beside him, obviously injured, to Sherlock, who was clearly being held hostage by her lover, Anderson. And he was staring at her now, horrified.

She seemed frozen to the spot. Finally, she pointed back, over her shoulder. “I told everyone else to hang back. We all heard the shot. I said I'd check it out first, investigate...”

She shook her head, trying to make some sense of what was going on. It was no good?

“What have you _done?_ ” She demanded, and then, more desperate, “Tell me this wasn't you, Mike.”

Anderson recovered. He tightened his hold on Sherlock. “Sally, it's okay,” he told her. “I need you to get me a car. I need to get away from here, okay?” He was speaking quickly, actually acting as if he was having a perfectly typical conversation with his girlfriend. He was ignoring the fact that he was currently holding Sherlock prisoner and threatening to blow his brains out. “I want you to come with me,” he finished.

She blinked. “Why?”

He glanced at John, who was picking himself off of the floor again. “I'm in some trouble, Sally.” His eyes were pleading her. “Please, help me.”

“Donovan, he's crazy,” John interjected.

“Shut up!” Anderson hissed.

John continued, regardless. “He shot Lestrade. He's cracking up.” He hesitated. “He raped Sherlock.”

Sherlock actually moaned, as if in pain. 

John was stunned.

 _His rapist had a gun to his head. How could his main concern still be the truth being revealed? Even if it was to Sally?_

Donovan was staring, horror struck, at Anderson. She clearly could not believe her eyes, or her ears.

“You told me,” she said, quietly. “You told me to taunt him, to make Sherlock regret that way he had treated us both.” She held a shaky hand to her head. “How could you do that? What was the plan? Push the blame on to me, somehow? Paint me to look like a heartless bitch so that you could make yourself look better when you tore me down?” She took a step forward. “Is that how it was?”

Anderson shook his head desperately. “No,” he jerked his head. “Please Sally, we can talk about this later. Just get me a car.”

She stood there, apparently torn.

“This isn't Bonnie and Clyde, Sally,” Lestrade croaked. “Anderson is a very sick man, and he needs help. I know you care about him. Help me get him that care he needs.”

Sally's eyes rested on Sherlock's. He gazed back at her, patiently. And then, he nodded to her.

Anderson was beside himself.

“Help me,” he whimpered. “Please, Sally,” 

Sally had made up her mind.

She eyed him sadly.

“No, Mike…” 

“But I'll go to prison!”

She frowned. “You deserve to.”

He snorted in disbelief. “You’re choosing Sherlock Holmes over me? You hate him!”

She nodded. “Yes, I do,” she agreed. “And the reason he makes my skin crawl, is because of the way he treats the victims. He acts like every murder, every rape, is just a game to him. A battle of intellect between him and the murderer, or the rapist. That’s why I hated him. I still do.” She lowered her voice. “But, I'm a police woman first. And I know right from wrong. Unlike you, it would seem. I think you’ve forgotten who you are. You’ve become one of _them._ ” She stepped forward, moving to join Lestrade and John, showing clearly whose side she was on. “It's over, Mike, Give me the gun? Please?”

Anderson let out a strangled sob. His knew his last opportunity to save his own skin was fading fast.

He lost it completely. _She had betrayed him! Just like Lestrade! Why could none of them realise, he was not the only one at fault here?_

Well, whatever they wanted, he wasn't about to go quietly.

“You think this is over? You think I haven't left my mark?” To emphasise his point, he actually leaned forward, and viciously bit the back of Sherlock's neck, drawing blood. Sherlock yelped, and struggled against Anderson for the first time since he had been grabbed. Anderson was delighted.

Sally was in tears. Lestrade swore angrily. 

“Christ’s sake, Anderson!”

John felt sickened. 

_He'd kill him, without a second thought. That's how far gone he is._

“He's trembling,” Anderson announced. And he sounded so ecstatic. “He's terrified of me!”

Sherlock didn't need to see his face to know that that horrible expression of euphoria, the same look Anderson had given him _that_ night, would have returned with a vengeance. He closed his eyes.

_Stop now. Let me go. Enough. Please._

“I could do anything I want to him right now!” Anderson exclaimed. “Just like before! I could touch him wherever I wanted, I could make him squirm. I could _fuck_ him again, and all you'd be able to do is stand there, and watch me!” 

“No,” Sherlock breathed. He couldn’t stop himself. Not again. Not in front of John.

To hear his desperation, it was too much for John. But what could he do? If he moved, he had no doubts whatsoever as to whether Anderson would shoot Sherlock. He truly believed that in that moment, Anderson was capable of anything.

Sally couldn’t look. “This isn’t you,” she whispered, helplessly. “This can’t be you.”

“Stop this,” Lestrade beseeched of his one time friend. “Just let him go, for pities sake.”

Anderson grinned madly. “Did you hear him? Did you?” He was excited, over the moon. Triumphant. “He's scared of me! He's weak, I'm the strong one!” He pointed at Lestrade. “Sir, I'm a better man than you! I did this! I'm the man who broke the unflappable Sherlock Holmes! I did it, I raped him...I raped...”

He faltered.

Sherlock sensed it. And, in that moment, he knew. He understood. And he knew he had found the answer.

“How proud are you, Anderson?” Sherlock asked, softly. “Think about what you’ve done. Think about what you’ve become…”

“I _won_! I’m stronger, look at you! I did this to you…”

“Yes, you did. But look what you’ve done to yourself.” He tutted. His voice was so soft now, only Anderson could hear his words. “You’ve paid a far higher price than me.”

Anderson’s anger was dwindling fast, and the exhilaration was leaving him. The softly spoken words were hitting home.

“Which one of us is worthless, now?”

“Stop it! I don’t… I’m not… _Oh God. I'm a rapist._ I... I...”

It was as if saying the words out loud suddenly made him realize what they meant. And that realization hurt. A lot.

Anderson closed his eyes.

_“No…”_

Very slowly, the wretched man released his hold on Sherlock and pushed him away from him, Sherlock stumbled over to John, and the relieved doctor moved in front of Sherlock, protecting him. He could hear Sherlock's laboured breathing in his ear, knew the calm exterior was all an act, and John closed his eyes, sending up a silent prayer. 

_Hold on, Sherlock. That was fantastic. You’ve done it. You're okay. Just hold on._

“I did it,” Anderson suddenly announced. The insanity had left his eyes; in its place was only sad acceptance. “I'm a rapist. I’m the scum of the Earth.” He glanced down at Lestrade. “And I could have killed you, Sir. My own Detective Inspector,” he caught himself. “In fact, a friend. I'm sorry.”

He looked again towards Sherlock. John frowned, moving ever closer to his friend.

A stray tear trickled down Anderson's cheek.

It only made John despise the man more.

“I didn't mean it too go that far,” Anderson told Sherlock. “I'm sorry for what I did to you.”

Sherlock gazed at him. “Doesn't help,” he replied, his eyes flashing.

“I know,” Anderson agreed. “If it helps, I’ve ruined my own life, as well as yours. My wife moved out, unable to deal with my mood swings any longer. She’s run to off her parents, in Scotland. I don’t deserve her anyway. Sally, here, wants nothing to do with me, and I'm a sick freak who raped another man. There is nothing I could ever do to make up for what I did to you that night, Sherlock.” He outstretched his hand to Sherlock uncertainly. “But for what it’s worth, as I said, I really am sorry.”

John turned and gaped at Sherlock. Could he actually take up Anderson’s offer of a handshake? 

His friend didn't move. 

“You won't shake my hand?” Anderson asked. He sounded disappointed.

“You beat me, broke me, _raped_ me, and you’ve just held a gun to my head,” came the curt reply. “Obviously not.”

Anderson paused, and then nodded. “Of course. Quite right too. Well, it was worth a try.”

And then, he placed the gun to his own temple. 

Sally cried out.

Lestrade pleaded, “No!”

Even John started forward, not wanting it to end that way.

Only Sherlock stayed exactly where he was, motionless. 

“Don't,” Sally begged. “Please, don't do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can't watch you die, Mike.” She lowered her voice. “I still love you, God help me. I still _care._ ”

Lestrade staggered to his feet, with John’s assistance. “Prove that you're not the coward I think you are, Mike.”

“This isn't the way,” John added, quietly. “You _can_ get the help you need, Anderson.”

Sherlock looked at him. 

John frowned. His friend’s expression was unreadable.

Anderson's face contorted, as he pressed the gun ever harder against his head. And then, he began to sob with earnest.

He couldn't do it. He _was_ a coward.

He allowed the gun to drop to the ground harmlessly, and then he covered his face with his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

Lestrade, clearly relieved, but also shaken up, and still in pain, moved towards his former colleague gingerly, pausing to stoop, and retrieve the gun. He then, grimacing, spun Anderson round and restrained him with the handcuffs, as Sally looked on.

“Michael Anderson, you are under arrest for rape and assault. You do not have to say anything...”

John turned away. He couldn’t believe that it was actually over. That Anderson was finally going to get his comeuppance. That Sherlock could, now, relax again.

Sherlock was standing a little away, his back to John.

John approached him, cautiously.

“Sherlock?” John whispered. “Are you okay?”

His friend didn't reply.

“John?” Lestrade was calling him. The doctor turned. “Can you please make sure you and Sherlock see the paramedics before they leave?” Lestrade’s face showing his own agony, as he spoke through gritted teeth. He would be fine, the gunshot had not done as much damage as it could have done, and all he needed was some medical attention. Sally was standing behind Lestrade, her eyes locked on Anderson.

John had never liked the woman, but he felt for her now. How was she supposed to deal with the truth? That her lover was a rapist? 

And what would become of her now?

Lestrade was eyeing Sherlock. 

“I'll have to report this,” he said, loudly. “There will be, uh, people high up who will want an update.” He looked knowingly at John. “They'll see that this mess gets cleaned up. Which obviously included the Butcher's remains, taken away earlier.”

John nodded. He cleared his throat. “Um, Detective? Can I have my gun back, please?”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Later,” he replied. “It's evidence,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “At the moment.”

John blinked.

Then, he understood.

_They needn't worry._

With one last smile, Lestrade moved away, taking Anderson with him, with Donovan bringing up the rear.

As soon as they were gone, Sherlock crumpled. He sunk to the ground, his head in his hands, and his shoulders shaking. John, feeling tearful himself, went to his friend’s side and crouched down beside him.

After a moment's hesitation, John took out a tissue, and, leaning forward, began to gently dab the tissue against the bleeding bite mark on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock moaned, and tried to pull away, but John kept going.

“Don't be such a baby,” John scolded him, frowning as he tended to the wound. Anderson, once again, had really wanted to hurt his friend. This was a nasty bite.

Sherlock rubbed at his tired eyes. “I must seem very weak, John.” He then glanced up, meeting John's gaze for a few seconds, before looking away again. “I'm sorry.”

John sighed. “Don’t be daft.” Happy with his effort, he slipped the tissue back on his pocket, and then he placed his arms around Sherlock, pulling the other man close. Sherlock did not resist. “You were really, eh, strong through all of that, you know.” John told him, nervously. Seeing Sherlock so timid continued to be very disconcerting for him. He still wasn't sure how best to react. “I can't imagine how hard it must have been, having to be that close to that bastard.” 

Sherlock nodded once. He looked up at John with sore, reddened eyes.

“Mind if I smoke another cigarette, John?”

John chuckled. “No, Sherlock, you smoke away.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock lit up.

They were silent for a moment.

John cleared his throat. “At least it's over now.”

Sherlock's eyes glanced towards John, but he didn't speak.

“I mean,” John added, quickly. “I don't think that’s it, all in the past and over and done with, but with Anderson locked up, at least we can move on now. You can try to get back to some degree of normality.” A smile. “For you, anyway.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I can _try_ ,” he accepted.

John brushed a hand through his short hair. “It's a good thing that he didn't shoot himself.”

“Is it?”

John was thrown. “Well, yes. This way, he can get some help.”

“Help?” Sherlock remarked. “He deserves help?”

“He might be able to get better.”

“He won't.”

John was tired of the riddles. “Why are you saying that?”

Sherlock stared straight ahead. “It would have been better for him if he had shot himself.”

John blinked. This was cold but, of course, he understood completely. After everything Anderson had put Sherlock through, how could Sherlock not wish death on the other man? John was being too soft.

“I can understand why you'd prefer him dead,” John said, eventually. “It’s not surprising. And he does deserve it. I tried to kill him myself, so I completely-.”

“I don't mean for me, John. I mean for him.”

Now, John was confused. “What?”

“Pretty soon, he'll wish he'd fired that gun.” There was no vindictiveness in his tone, or cruelty. Sherlock was simply pointing out a fact. And it made John shiver.

“What do you mean?” He pressed further.

Sherlock puffed on his cigarette. He turned, and regarded John thoughtfully.

“Don’t worry.” He insisted, getting to his feet, with a helping hand from the friend at his side. “You, and he, will both find out soon enough.”

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, three chapters in one go for you! I'm off to Las Vegas today so wanted the whole story posted before I left :) I hope you like the ending! Please comment and let me know? :) Thanks for all the hits, kudos and comments you guys have left on this, I'm really glad people have enjoyed it! There is a sequel, called Best Intentions, which is a WIP. I'll start posting that here too next week. Thanks again and bye for now!

_Sherlock was slumped in his arm chair, his head lolling back, his eyes closed. John was curled up on the sofa, his hands clasped in front of him. John's eyes were glued to Sherlock, it was as if the man didn't want to stop staring._

_“Do you want a picture?” Sherlock asked, dryly._

_John blinked. “What?”_

_Sherlock gave him a funny look. “You've been staring at me for the past hour. It's slightly off putting.” The detective smiled. “You were the one who diagnosed a good night’s sleep, after all. It's hard to nod off when you can always sense another man's eyes on you.”_

_John coughed uncomfortably. Sherlock chuckled to himself._

_Always so shy, John._

_“I'm being rude,” John noted._

_“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. He didn't look at John. “Don't worry about it.”_

_“I'm just relieved,” John said, more quietly. “I can't believe it's over.”_

_Sherlock frowned. “I don't want to talk about it again, John.”_

_“But Sherlock...”_

_“Never again,” Sherlock interjected. “I never want to hear his name mentioned to me, John. Ever.”_

_John didn't like this. It didn't seem healthy to him._

_“You can't just bury it, Sherlock,” John argued. “Believe me, it won't work.” He looked down. “I'm speaking from some experience.”_

_Sherlock pursed his lips together. “The war,” he said, simply._

_John nodded, and he stared straight ahead._

_There was a awkward silence._

_John let out a loud sigh. He got slowly to his feet._

_“You hide what happened away, you let him win.” He stated, firmly._

_Sherlock shrugged. “Whatever you think.”_

_John couldn't help but take offence. “Like you ever listen to anything I ever say anyway.” He moved, standing directly in front of Sherlock. “It would help if you'd even bother to look at me.”_

_Sherlock frowned. His eyes met John's._

_“Thank you,” John snapped. “Nice of you to recognize I'm here.”_

_Sherlock was taken aback. “You're angry.”_

_“You bet I'm angry.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because you never take my advice!”_

_“That's not true.”_

_John smiled. The smile didn't reach his eyes. Then, he turned his back._

_Sherlock was confused. What was happening? Why was John picking a fight with him? Everything had been okay earlier, hadn't it? And now, John was upset, and Sherlock had no idea why._

_Suddenly, John turned abruptly, and stared at Sherlock._

_Sherlock was unnerved. This was strange. It made no sense. The flat felt cold, alien. Hadn't the sun been shining a moment ago? Why wass it so dark now?_

_John was walking towards him, almost predatory. He was still smiling. His lip was curling. Sherlock was frightened._

_“John?” Sherlock muttered. “What's wrong?”_

_John placed his hands on both arms of Sherlock's chair and he leaned over the perplexed Detective._

_“Nothing, Sherlock,” John replied. His lips were so close to Sherlock's. John stared so deeply into the other man's eyes. Sherlock was totally thrown by this sudden change in his friend's mood, he didn't know how to respond to it. And Sherlock hated it when he was on the back foot. John moved slightly, so he could whisper in Sherlock's ear; “I'm just seeing things differently.”_

_Sherlock was none the wiser._

_“What things?” He enquired. “John, I don't under-”._

_He stopped talking abruptly, because John had quickly pressed his lips against Sherlock's and was kissing him, quite punishingly. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he tried to pull away, but John would not allow him to move. He was trapped in his best friend's arms, imprisoned by his kiss._

_I don't... John... please...?_

_Finally, John moved back. Sherlock stared at him, completely shocked, and trying, desperately, to regain his breath._

_His confusion turned to blind panic, as John began to slowly move down the other man's body, kissing his neck, undoing the buttons on his shirt, and licking and sucking on his chest. Sherlock tried to call out to his friend, tried to ask John to stop, to say that this was moving too quickly, that he didn't know whether he wanted this or not..._

_That he had no idea what this was._

_“It's okay,” John urged him. “Just relax. I know you want this. Let me take care of you, Sherlock. Allow yourself to feel something good, and loving, just for a change. Let me do this._

_Sherlock moaned. John really knew how to tease with his tongue!_

_No! This is John! This is wrong._

_Why is this wrong?_

_John's not gay._

_He loves you. Nothing is ever as simple as straight and gay. Black and White. Fat and thin._

_I don't want this._

_Then, why does it feel so good?_

_“John,” Sherlock whimpered, out loud. “Please.”_

_John smiled up at his friend._

_“It's okay, Sherlock. Trust me.”_

_And he began to tug on Sherlock's belt._

_Fear flooded Sherlock. He wanted to stop John. He needed to stop this, whatever it was, before it went any further. But he couldn't. He couldn't move. All he could do was sit there, grasping the chair arms, eyes squeezed shut._

_Sherlock's belt was gone. And John was ever lower, his head level with Sherlock's groin. And his hand was groping inside of Sherlock's pants. And..._

_Oh God! Stop, John! But, that feels incredible! No..._

_John had taken out Sherlock's manhood and had begun to stroke him. Sherlock had never felt anything like it. John certainly knew how to pleasure a man. That surprised Sherlock. It was impossible for him to deny that he was enjoying this._

_And then, Sherlock was in heaven._

_John had taken him into his mouth. Sherlock couldn't help but cry out. He couldn't control his own urges, all he could do was close his eyes and get lost in his delirium. What John was doing to his body, the sensations Sherlock was feeling, it felt incredible._

_Sherlock gasped, squirming, as John took him in deeper. Sherlock couldn't have stopped John now, even if he had wanted too. Which he didn't. John had the power now and he was taking full benefit of it._

_Sherlock could feel something building, deep inside of him. All he knew was he wouldn't be able to last, not for much longer._

_He was so close. He pulled on John's hair. Wait. No. John needed to stop, Sherlock didn't want to lose himself completely, he had to keep some essence of control. John was driving him insane and the doctor knew it. And he was taking great pleasure in having Sherlock at his mercy._

_Sherlock writhed, one hand clinging hold of John's hair, the other clutching the chair arm desperately._

_Keep going, John. Dear god, keep going._

_He glanced down again at his best friend._

_And he screamed in horror._

_No._

_No, please._

_John was gone and Anderson had taken his place._

_Sherlock tried to rise, tried to force the hated man away from him, but he was frozen, unable to move… All he could do was stare, terrified. It was as if he was being held by an invisible force._

_Anderson was sucking Sherlock now. It was he, not John, that was bringing the Detective to ecstasy._

_No. Stop. Don't._

_“It's not possible,” Sherlock breathed. Please, I don't want you to do this to me. Not you. Don't make me. “You can't be here.”_

_Anderson paused. He moved slightly, sitting back on his hunches. He eyed Sherlock, amused, a cruel smile on his face._

_“You actually think it's over,” he whispered. His voice was steady, chilling. “You think I can't get to you now?” He viciously grabbed Sherlock's cock and twisted. Sherlock howled in pain. He was being dragged down and suddenly found himself bundled onto the floor. He was in agony, writhing, at Anderson's feet._

_And Anderson was laughing._

_That gruesome, evil sound. Sherlock covered his ears. He couldn't shut it out._

_“You're not real,” Sherlock whimpered. “This can't be happening.”_

_Anderson kicked him in the ribs. And again. Sherlock couldn't defend himself. He was pathetic. He was still in Anderson's power. No matter what he did, no matter what he would ever do, Anderson would always follow him, always haunt him._

_He'll never be able to escape his own fears._

_Anderson pinned Sherlock beneath him. His trousers were gone. He was helpless._

_A finger was inserted. He cried out._

_“No, don't.” Sherlock moaned. “You don't have to keep doing this. Please, leave me alone.”_

_“I'll never stop,” came the spiteful reply. “I'll always be with you. John can't help you, Mycroft can't save you, Sherlock. You're mine.”_

_To empathize his words, he thrusted forward._

_Sherlock screamed._

XXX

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock jolted awake. He jumped in shock. _What? Where?_ All he could see was John's concerned face. He looked around, wondering where Anderson had gone.

Then, he realized.

_A dream. It was all a dream._

He was in his flat, sitting in his chair. Only John was with him. And John's expression was, thankfully, normal. No cold smiles, no predatory stares. Worried, yes, but undeniably the same old John. 

Sherlock could have kissed him.

_No. Not a helpful thought. He was definitely deleting that one._

Sherlock covered his face with his hands.

“Sherlock?”

John was trying to gain his attention.

_This was awkward._

_It was just a dream. Anderson again. To be expected._

_But, John. That was new._

_Why am I dreaming like that about John?_

“Hey!” John gave him a nudge. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock flinched. 

“Sorry,” John said, at once. “Didn't mean to startle you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “'S fine,” he said, sleepily. He glanced at John, then down at the ground. He realized he was covered by a blanket. He smiled gratefully in his friend's direction, and then out of the window. It was pitch dark. Wasn't the sun shining just now? 

“What time is it?” The detective asked.

“Ten past Eight.”

Sherlock stretched, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “You should have woken me, John. How long was I asleep for?”

John shrugged. “Not long, a couple of hours at most. I thought it was best just to let you rest, after the day you've had.” He caught himself. “After the two weeks you've had.”

Sherlock gave him a disapproving look. “I'm not an invalid, John.”

“I know that.” He gestured helplessly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “But I thought everyone needed some TLC sometimes, even _you_.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That's not funny, John.”

“Suit yourself!”

John perched on the edge of the sofa.

Sherlock seemed tense. 

John wondered why.

After a beat, he asked; “Was it another nightmare?”

Sherlock looked up, abruptly.

“Excuse me?”

John smiled patiently. He hadn't expected his friend to be this nervous. Maybe it had been a shock to the system for him, this whole day. Not only had he been held captive by a serial killer, but then his own rapist had pointed a gun at his head. Not to mention, although Sherlock had escaped them both, his whole ordeal had taken it's toll. Even Sherlock Holmes could only take so much before the cracks had to start showing. He had won eventually, yes, and now he could start to heal, but what would be the cost of everything he had been put through? How would Sherlock change? And exactly what would he need from John?

_Whatever the future chose to bring, John would be there._

“I asked you about your dream,” John replied. “What was it about?”

Sherlock blinked. 

_Oh God._

He stared at John. And then, he glanced down.

“Anderson,” Sherlock replied, simply. He decided it was best that he left it at that.

_He'll hate me. He'll be disgusted. He must never know._

John, typically, was unsatisfied.

“Was it like the others?” He probed. “Corridor, doors, swimming pool, and so on?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“Yes,” he lied.

John looked like he wanted to discuss this further. Sherlock certainly didn't.

_What will he think of me, if he knew what I was really dreaming about? How would he react if he found out that some small part of me, some depraved, sexual section of my subconscious, saw him that way?_

_It was just a dream, Sherlock._

_Do I see John like that?_

_Let it go._

So, as swiftly as possible, Sherlock changed the subject.

“Have all the police left now?” He enquired. “Did they come to their extremely boring and completely inaccurate conclusions, and leave us in peace?”

John gave him a look, and then he nodded. “They finished up just under an hour ago. They were very efficient, Sherlock. You should give them some credit.” He glanced away. “And all the officers were stunned about -”. He stopped himself. “Well, it came as a shock.”

Sherlock swallowed. “So, they all know?”

John could have kicked himself. _Very subtle, John. Well done._

“They all know Anderson, Sherlock.” John replied. “They saw him being carted off by Lestrade, in handcuffs. They were all disgusted with their colleague, believe me.”

“All of them? Even Donovan?”

John frowned. “She did okay today. She saved us.”

“Hmm. And we'll never hear the end of it.”

John sighed. “The police officers present will work out what happened. They are all pretty good at putting two and two together. That's what police do.”

Sherlock chuckled coldly. “Oh, really? Shame they can't demonstrate that ability every day,” he snapped. “My life might be somewhat quieter.”

“And that would be your idea of hell,” John threw back. “A quiet life.”

Sherlock's mouth twitched. “Not the point,” he retorted.

They met each others’ gazes then. And both smiled. It felt good to share a joke. There hadn't be much of that for two weeks. Obviously.

“Lestrade will be in contact with us soon,” John said. “He's promised to keep us updated.”

Sherlock didn't react. “Right,” he said, plainly.

John frowned. “Sherlock, although Anderson is in custody, we've still got a long way to go. Police interviews and court cases. Giving evidence. Both of us.” He rose to his feet, and then walked towards the kitchen, the worry in his tone evident. “It might take ages before we finally see the bastard behind bars.” He turned, meeting Sherlock's gaze. “And we don't know how Scotland Yard will try and cover this whole thing up. It would be embarrassing for them if the media caught on.” His eyes hardened. “As long as that sick git gets what’s coming to him, I'm willing to see it through to the end.” He jerked his head. “It's gonna be a rough ride though.” 

One hand on the kitchen door, he called back. “I'm going to have a cup of tea. Want one?”

“Please,” Sherlock answered.

John disappeared into the kitchen, allowing the door to close softly behind him.

Sherlock returned to staring out of the window.

_There won't be a court case, John._

He didn't smile.

XXX

Donovan glanced at the clock. Nearly Eight Thirty. Dammit. And she still had a pile of paper work on her desk. Well, it would have to wait until morning.

She'd had more than enough of that day already.

Everyone else had left off. She was the only one there. Well, apart from the Detective Inspector, who usually worked later than anyone else. And he'd certainly been busy since they'd returned from Baker Street. Telephone meetings all afternoon and evening. No one had been allowed to interrupt him. She could only imagine the difficulties he would face in dealing with this whole sorry affair.

She frowned. Someone else was also still at the station. Of course.

_Mike. Mike wouldn't be going home that night._

She stopped, holding the file to her chest. She pictured Mike, scared and alone, in a cell. She knew he deserved everything that was coming to him, but that didn't stop her thinking about him, and wondering how he was. Nothing could stop her stop caring.

_Maybe Lestrade would allow her to see Mike tomorrow. Just once more. She'd ask. All he could say was no, after all. And she'd done good that day. He'd already told her so._

She began to tidy up her desk and then leaned forward to close down her computer. She'd dived into her work, wanting to get it all wrapped up that day. Working helped her clear her head. She yawned. Bed would be nice.

“Sergeant Donovan?”

She looked up, startled.

Lestrade was watching her, leaning against the door.

“Sorry, Sir. I was just packing up now.”

He gave her a small smile. “No worries,” he replied. She frowned. Why did he sound so strained? “Can I have a word with you please, Sally?” He added, and gestured. “In my office?” 

She swallowed. “There's no one else here, Sir.”

He nodded. “I know, but I'd prefer to talk in there. It won't take long.”

She was instantly insanely nervous.

_Oh God. What have I done? The review board cleared me, and the D.I. Was happy with my effort today. So, what’s changed?_

She didn't want to move. “Have I done something wrong, Sir?”

He suddenly seemed very tired. “Please, Donovan. Just come through. Then I'll talk to you.”

Apprehensively, she followed him.

She walked through the door and he closed it behind her. He wouldn't catch her eye. Her fears intensified.

“Sit down, Sally.”

She had had enough. If he had something to say, why couldn't he just get on and damned well say it?

“What’s this all about, Sir?”

He leaned back against the door, hands in his pockets, his eyes locked on the floor. 

_Whatever he's about to say, he doesn't want to. That's not a comfort._

“Donovan,” he began, “I'm transferring you.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You're moving. Away from Scotland Yard.”

She shook her head. This made no sense!

“Sir, I don't understand...”

“I've got you a position at a station in North Yorkshire. The Met will fund your new residence, obviously. I've arranged for you to live in a nice little cottage, not far from the station.”

“What the hell?” She exclaimed. Transfer? North Yorkshire? Little cottage?

_No way._

Lestrade sighed. “It's a quaint little village, Sally. The people are friendly. It's quiet, peaceful. You'll like it.”

Sally held up her hand. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.

“You want me to move out of London?”

Lestrade frowned. “I don't have any choice.”

“I'm not going anywhere!”

“You have to.”

“But my life is in the City. My friends, and my family-”.

“I'm sorry-”.

“But this is my home!” She was desperate, and dangerously close to tears. But Sally Donovan was tough, she didn't cry. Not even what she had to betray her boyfriend. Because that is what she had done. She'd given him up, thrown him to the wolves. And this was the thanks she got? Well, if Lestrade thought that she'd take this lying down, he was mistaken. She had to get through to him somehow. Yorkshire? She couldn't live in Yorkshire. She'd go mad. She wouldn't do it. Just drop everything and move hundreds of miles away?

_It's NOT going to happen._

She clasped her hands together and glared daggers at her D.I. 

_No. He was her former D.I. She could say whatever she wanted._

“I'm not going to just sell up and go with this, Sir,” she snapped. “You know that, right?”

He closed his eyes, as if he was is pain. “I'm sorry, Sally,” he said again.

“Yeah, well you can stuff your apologies!” She shot back. “I'm not leaving.”

“You have to,” he replied, gazing at her. He then added, quietly; “It's better than the alternative.”

A shiver went through Sally. 

“Meaning?”

“Believe me, Sally. You don't want to know.”

She covered her face with her hands. _Is this really happening?_

“When?” She moaned.

“Tomorrow.”

She gaped at him, stupidly. _Was this all a sick joke?_

 _“Tomorrow?”_ She repeated, as if the word didn't compute. “How am I supposed..?”

“Pack your essentials only. All your other worldly goods will be sent on to you shortly, and I can help you tie up any loose ends from here. Train leaves at nine thirty. Taxi will pick you up at nine.” With a heavy sigh, he opened his door again and stood aside to allow her to exit. “You better get packing.”

She didn't move. “You can't do this to me.” The tears were falling now. “Please, help me.”

She could tell how hard he was finding this, how much he regretted it. She could also see, however, that her pleas were useless. This decision had not been made by Lestrade, and although he didn't like it any more than she did, he had no alternative but to go with it.

And she knew she was doomed. She was moving to North Yorkshire. Disgraced, cast aside, like an embarrassment. Where she would not have to be seen, or heard from, ever again. They were going to leave her to rot.

_What had she done?_

“You have to go, Sally.” He told her, wearily. “The order has come from very high up. There's nothing anyone can do.”

She walked towards the door dejectedly, but now, finally accepting the inevitable. “Who did I piss off, Sir?”

“Someone you really shouldn't have,” he replied.

“But I'm a good cop, Sir.” She whispered. “And I did my job well today.”

Lestrade gave her a sad smile. “That's why you've still got a job at all, Sally.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Be grateful for that.”

Trying to keep her head held high, she walked past him. Then, she stopped.

_Where's the harm now in asking? She'll be the other end of the country tomorrow._

“Can I see Mike before I leave?”

He grimaced. “No. I don't think that's a good idea.”

She looked down. “I know what he is, Sir, and what he's done. It sickens me, it does.” She met his gaze. “But I'll never see him again.”

“The man is a rapist, Sally.” He said, firmly. “It's impossible.”

She nodded. Well, it was worth a try.

 _'Bye Mike._

She looked around what had been her workplace for the last seven years. She knew she'd never step foot in there again; she was scared.

“Goodbye, Detective Inspector,” she stated. “Thanks for;” A beat passed, before she added, “Everything.” And then, she walked out, went to her desk, picked up her bag, and walked to the door. She didn't look back. 

Lestrade watched her go.

He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his forehead. That was hard. But, he'd done what he could for Sally, and had helped her out as much as he were able. It would be a lot worse for her right now if he hadn't. He could take comfort in that.

“You were kind there, Detective Inspector.” Lestrade frowned at the sound of the voice, and he looked up to find Mycroft Holmes in the doorway, watching him. “She didn't deserve to be treated so well.”

Lestrade eyed the newcomer warily. He took in the appearance of the man, the bowler hat on his head, and the large umbrella he held at his side. Lestrade knew that to the untrained eye, the man looked like your quintessential British businessman, but Lestrade knew appearances could be deceptive.

Mycroft Holmes was anything but usual.

The Detective bristled. “She's a good officer. And she came through today.” He looked down. “As I understand it, I wasn't the only one who put in a good word for her, was I?”

Mycroft shrugged. “That is true. And her efforts yesterday kept her a policewoman.” He smiled. “Keeping her _free_ to do her job, as it were. Though not free to look for any vanishing friends of course.” Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “I want her gone by tomorrow, no time for any unwanted investigations.” He smiled cheerfully. “Perhaps she will take the additional time the peace and quiet allows her to have a good hard look at herself. She may even learn how to properly treat a rape victim in the future. We can only hope she takes heed of this warning. For her sake...”

Lestrade glanced away. He didn't like the aggressive tone but couldn't argue with Mycroft's words. Donovan's attitude to Sherlock's assault had sickened him. Anderson had been a bad influence on Sally, he had made her very bitter. Maybe some time away would do Donovan some good. And then, maybe, Mycroft would allow her to return one day. Maybe.

Mycroft took a step forward. Lestrade glanced up again. He knew what was coming next.

“Would you mind accompanying me to the cells, please?” The voice was so polite, so pleasant, that it made Lestrade feel uncomfortable.

“Will you need me to come in with you?” he enquired.

Mycroft smiled. “That won't be necessary. If you could just show me the way, that would be more than sufficient.”

Lestrade had received his orders from the very top. His visitor was to be obeyed without question. But his whole manner, his coldness, it made Lestrade uneasy. And Lestrade wasn't stupid. He had never been told, of course, but he'd been suspicious for a while that the mysterious Mycroft, who always turned up on the scene when Sherlock and John were in danger, was Sherlock's brother. It wasn’t that he especially resembled Sherlock, it was more the man's manner, his presence. And he was of course as arrogant as Sherlock. Lestrade was also pretty certain that the siblings didn't get on, but that didn't mean things weren't about to become very unpleasant for Anderson. Although Lestrade knew Anderson deserved what was coming to him, he couldn't help but feel anxious. Anderson had been his colleague, his friend.

And now, he was a rapist. It took some getting used to.

“Now, please, Detective Inspector.” 

Mycroft was hurrying him. As patient as his brother then.

Lestrade did as he was told. He walked out of his office, with Mycroft, and saw three other men were with him. They all stared at Lestrade, unsmiling.

Lestrade's sense of foreboding grew ever stronger.

He led them to the cells and then stopped in front of the small prison that held Anderson. All the men watching had been excused by their D.I. at least an hour previously.

No one else there. Only Mycroft, his three heavies, and a Detective Inspector that was sworn to secrecy.

And Anderson himself, of course.

Lestrade handed the key to Mycroft and then stood there, uncertain.

Mycroft inclined his head. “That will be all, Detective. Thank you for your assistance.” A pause, and then, “Good evening to you.”

Lestrade knew he had been dismissed. He hesitated for a second, and then took his leave of them.

Mycroft watched him go. 

_The man is sentimental. The usual weakness._

Leaning down, he unlocked the door and entered the cell.

The tiny room was grey and bleak. There was no furniture, save for a bed, a sink and a bucket. This was obviously only a holding cell, hosting Anderson until he was picked up by a car tomorrow, and then delivered to the court.

_Of course, no car would ever arrive._

Anderson was lying on the cot, his eyes closed. He was fast asleep. He hadn't stirred when the door had opened.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Sherlock didn't get to sleep properly. Why the hell should his rapist?

The elder Holmes brother walked forward until he was standing right beside the bed, looking down upon Anderson with disdain.

“Mr. Anderson?” He said, loudly. “Wake up, please.”

Anderson awoke abruptly. He blinked up at Mycroft, trying to focus.

“What's happening? He murmured. “Am I being moved?” He squinted, taking in Mycroft's clothes and stance. “Are you my new lawyer?

Mycroft actually laughed. “No, I'm afraid not. But you are certainly being moved. Get up please, time to go.”

Anderson didn't like this. Something was wrong.

“Where are we going?” He enquired.

Mycroft's cold smile did not reach his eyes. “You're going on a trip, _Mister_ Anderson. And we have to leave at once.” He reached for the now even tenser other man. “I wouldn't resist, if I were you.”

Now, Anderson was scared. “ _Resist?_ ” He echoed. “What is this? Where are you taking me? Where's the D.I?”

Mycroft's tone was completely steady, he sounded almost nonchalant. But his eyes, they were flaming. Anderson shivered every time he looked into them.

“I'm not going anywhere with you,” he said, stubbornly. He actually crossed his arms across his chest to empathize his point. He may be a prisoner, but he was also a Sergeant. He knew the procedures that would need to be followed. This was definitely not one of them.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He seemed amused. Anderson's stomach was in knots.

“As you wish.” Mycroft told him. He turned and called over his shoulder; “Bring in the straight jacket please. It would seem the patient wishes to be uncooperative.”

Anderson jumped to his feet. “Straight Jacket? What? No!”

Hr grabbed for Mycroft in his panic, but Mycroft's aids rushed in and restrained Anderson, pinning him against the wall. Anderson fought helplessly in their grasps, but they held him firm. His struggles intensified when he saw one of the men was holding the straight jacket. No. Don't. He was desperate, and incensed, which made him stronger than normal, but these men were professionals. He couldn't move a muscle.

“Get off of me!” Anderson yelled at Mycroft. “You can't do this! I know my rights.”

Mycroft moved to within a foot of Anderson in an instance. He was staring at the other man, and Anderson tried to shrink away from him. The power in that expression, the hate. Anderson couldn't bear to be close to him. He had no idea what Mycroft was capable of and he knew he didn't want to find out.

“Rights?” Mycroft repeated, softly. “And what rights did your victim have, Mr. Anderson?”

Anderson's eyes widened.

How could this be happening? He knew he would be punished for what he had done, but not like this. Not by this sinister stranger. How could this be allowed to happen?

“Who are you?” Anderson whimpered.

His captor's smile widened. He tapped his bowler hat politely. “Forgive my rudeness. I didn't introduce myself, did I?” He leaned closer. “My name is Mycroft Holmes.” And, gripping Anderson's face in a punishing hold, he added, “I understand you know my brother, Sherlock.”

And then, Anderson knew. _Oh my God._

His struggles were renewed. He cried out for help, but there was none to be had. 

Mycroft watched him for a moment and then placed his hand against the frightened man's cheek. 

“Now, now,” he scolded. “I didn't expect such behaviour from the man who pinned down and brutally raped my younger brother. You were brave enough to do that to him, Michael. Are you unable to face the consequences of your actions?”

“I'm sorry,” Anderson whimpered. “I didn't mean to-”.

Mycroft slapped him. “Don't lie to me!” His eyes blazed. “You knew exactly what you were doing, and you enjoyed yourself. And now, you're going to pay for that enjoyment, my friend. Ten fold.”

Anderson began to cry. It was pitiful, watching him whimper and moan, as his body was wrecked with sobs. Mycroft was not impressed.

“You are pathetic,” he told his brother's rapist.

“Please,” Anderson pleaded. He had nothing left. No one was coming to save him. “Please, don't do this.”

Mycroft eyed him hatefully. “ _Please_ don't do this?” He parroted. “Tell me, Anderson. Is that what Sherlock said?”

Anderson slumped forward. Only the men holding him were preventing him from falling to the floor.

It was useless. He was finished. There would be no court case, no chance for him to be heard, no opportunity for him to make this up to his wife, or to Sally. His life was over, or it may as well be.

Suddenly, something struck him. 

_No._ He was not going quietly into the night. He wasn't walking out of the cell with these men. He would have his day in court, and he would take Sherlock Holmes down with him. 

Allowing the men to drag him towards the door, thinking him broken, he suddenly snapped back into life. He struggled ferociously, fighting against them with everything and, finally, he pulled free. Having no clue what to do, he didn't make a run for it. He had nowhere to go. Instead he, stupidly, turned on Mycroft. He punched the man hard and felt a huge amount of satisfaction when he saw Mycroft bleeding from a cut eye.

His victory was short-lived, however.

He saw the syringe out of the corner of his eye and backed off. He heard Mycroft's commanding voice declaring; “No.” Then he felt the blows, and quickly found himself on the ground again.

Hit after hit rained down on Anderson, beating him into submission. It was only when he began to lose consciousness that he realised who was attacking him, and how. Mycroft stood over him, his face red from exertion, his umbrella held high above his head. He was in mid blow and he looked exhilarated. Anderson knew, as everything started to go black, that the man had wanted to do this for some time.

_He wants to kill me. And no one would stop him._

And then, the blows stopped. When Anderson was finally able to focus on Mycroft again, he saw that a hint of that violence was now gone and Mycroft was watching him calmly once more.

“That's better,” Mycroft said, almost conversationally, “I don't believe we will have any more issues with him now.” He tutted. “If you get in fights with your orderlies, Mister Anderson, I will see to it that you are placed into solitary when you arrive at your destination;” he smiled grimly, “for your, and everyone else’s, sakes.”

Anderson reached out helplessly, grabbing hold of Mycroft's shoe. Mycroft swore in disgust and stepped back. “I'm a Sergeant,” Anderson croaked. “You can't do this. My wife, Sally, they'll look for me-”

Mycroft gazed down, his face neutral. “Neither your wife or your lover will bother to look. Your wife didn't seem to upset when she was advised of your disappearance. She seemed quite unconcerned. Mentioned your marriage was over. Understandable, being how you are a cheat, and a rapist.” He shrugged. “Oh, and actually, Mr. Anderson, you aren't actually a police officer any more.” He smiled. “In fact, from this moment on, for the rest of your life, you're nobody.”

With one last long stare, he then turned his back on the devastated rapist, and addressed his men once again.

“Put him in the jacket, and take him to the airport.” He glared. “And, make sure you're not seen!”

With that, Mycroft strode out of the cell, the sounds of Anderson's desperate cries ringing in his ears.

As he walked, he pulled out his phone. He quickly sent a text, and then, smiling in satisfaction, he replaced his mobile.

“That's that,” he muttered. “Everything in order. You're off the hook, Sherlock.”

_Now, maybe things could get back to normal._

Mycroft headed towards the exit, his umbrella swinging in his grasp. He paused when he felt eyes on him, watching his every move. He turned to see Lestrade staring at him, his expression unreadable.

“I almost forgot,” Mycroft whispered. He felt in his inside jacket pocket, pulled out a small bag, and tossed it to Lestrade, who caught it easily. “This little issue has been dealt with. The Butcher mess has been cleaned up, and the name Vern “Killer” Keller, or the Butcher, as he became to be known, will never be mentioned again.” He jerked his head towards the door leading to the cells. “Oh, and the Anderson matter, well, I have finalised that problem also. The situation is over.”

Lestrade blinked. He looked in the bag. Inside was John's revolver.

“See that firearm gets back to it's rightful owner for me, would you?” Mycroft requested.

Lestrade frowned. “Why don't you deliver it yourself?”

A coy smile. “Certain people don't like me interfering. Or clearing up their problems for them.”

The Detective shrugged theatrically. “I can't imagine why.”

Mycroft eyed him. It was not a nice look. “You disapprove of my methods, Detective?”

Lestrade clenched his fists. _He couldn't say what he wanted to. Not with this man._

“I just follow orders, Sir.” He replied plainly.

Mycroft smiled. “Probably for the best.” He gave him a small salute. “Good night, Detective Inspector.” And then, with a wink, he was gone.

Lestrade, very dejectedly, walked back to his office and sat down with a sigh. He knew Anderson would not be there the next time he went down to check on him. He knew he would never hear his name mentioned again. He wondered which exit they would use to get his old colleague out. Definitely not the front door. Too many witnesses. 

_And that would be no good at all when you want to make someone disappear._

Lestrade didn't know how he felt. He was glad Anderson was being punished for his sick crimes, but at the same time, _this was wrong_. They have a justice system for a reason. What was the point of it when men could just ignore it and deal with difficult cases as they saw fit? All to avoid a scandal…

Lestrade covered his face with his hands and let out a deep long sigh. Then, he gave himself a shake.

_Move on. Keep going. Another day tomorrow. Replacement officers to find. The next case to solve._

And he picked up his next file.

XXX

“Thanks very much. 'Bye now.”

Having said the usual pleasantries, John cancelled the call. He looked over at Sherlock, who still sat in the same armchair, staring out of the window.

Every so often, Sherlock glanced at his phone. John wondered if Sherlock was waiting for news.

_Lestrade perhaps? Or maybe even Mycroft?_

“That was the hospital,” John said, breaking the silence. 

Sherlock turned and looked at him.

“Oh?”

“Mrs. Hudson is doing well. She should be back at home in a couple of days.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied. “It will be nice to get back to some degree of normality around here.”

John couldn't help himself. He grinned. It was such a relief that not only Mrs. Hudson was apparently okay, but that Sherlock was ready to get back to normal. Well, normal for him anyway. But, John was still nervous. He knew they had a long hard slog ahead of them.

“It's going to be hard,” he said, quietly. “Moving on, it will take time. The nightmares aren't going to go away quickly.”

Sherlock frowned. “I know that, John. But right now, I'm alright. Probably as much as I ever will be again.” He closed his eyes. “I accept that Anderson will always be with me, but I can ignore him. I'm strong enough.”

The doctor was staring straight ahead. Sherlock could read his thoughts. His own nightmares were on his mind, the ones he suffered thanks to the horrific experiences of the war.

_John certainly knew all about PTSD._

Sherlock regarded his friend, who was now sitting on the sofa again, flicking through a copy of some pointless tabloid. It couldn't have been easy for John, these last two weeks. And that wasn't even including the Butcher’s attack. Just not knowing what to do for the best, seeing Sherlock in such a vulnerable state, the doctor must have found it hard.

_But he was always there._

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Eh, John?” He said, uncertainly. “I just wanted to say... well... this past fortnight has been hard for us both... us all... and you've been...” He stopped. He was embarrassed, flustered. How exactly are you supposed to say Thank You anyway, and not mess it up?

John sighed. Smiling affectionately, he stood, and walked over to Sherlock. Surprising his friend, he reached out and took his hand.

“You're welcome,” John told him, with a smirk.

Sherlock chuckled. _Of course. John knew him. He didn't have to say it._

They stayed like that for a few moments, holding hands. And watching each other. Neither one of them knew what to say.

_Things needed to be said. Feelings needed to be made clear. But how?_

“Sherlock,” John began, but then he was interrupted by the sound of a vibrating mobile.

Sherlock couldn't help but be amused by the irony.

Releasing John's hand, he stood up, and walked to his phone. He saw he had a text message and checked to see who was the sender.

_At last, Mycroft._

He read his new message.

_“It's done.”_

Sherlock pondered this for a moment. He stared at the phone, trying to clear his thoughts. He knew exactly what the two words meant, of course. Mycroft had dealt with the problem in his typically cold but efficient way, just as Sherlock knew he would. Vern, John's gun, Anderson. All done with. Was he pleased? Sherlock didn't know. One thing he was certain of though, was that this truly meant that it was now time to move on.

He smiled at John.

John returned the grin. “It's over?” he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. “Completely.”

Then, there was another beep from his mobile.

_Another text?_

Sherlock glowered. “If Mycroft thinks just because-.”

He read the new message. His eyes widened.

He smiled.

“Well, well.”

John glanced up, interested. “What does he want now?” 

Sherlock's face was flush with excitement.

“This one is not from Mycroft.”

John stepped closer and Sherlock handed him the phone. A sense of foreboding went through John as he read the short message.

_“Pleased to see you're on the road to recovery, Sherlock. I've missed you, my dear. Ready for another round? Reply back please. With my love & very best wishes, M.”_

John looked at his friend. They both knew who the text was from, and what they wanted. They were asking for the “game” to start up once again, and John was in no doubt that Sherlock was desperate to accept his offer.

John frowned. _Oh no._

“Are you sure you're ready?” he asked, softly.

Sherlock grinned. “As I'll ever be.”

 _Good enough._ John nodded to Sherlock. He would be at his side, as usual. He gestured towards the phone. “Better not keep him waiting then.”

Sherlock smirked. He held his mobile up, tapped in a reply, and, with a knowing smile to John, replied to Moriarty with one short message:

_“Game on.”_


End file.
